


Down the Valley of the Shadow

by San Antonio Rose (ramblin_rosie)



Category: El Dorado - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Western, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Cross-Posted on LiveJournal, Gen, SPN Cinema Challenge (Supernatural & Supernatural RPF)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:49:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27616517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ramblin_rosie/pseuds/San%20Antonio%20Rose
Summary: The only thing standing between carpetbagger Dick Roman and the water rights owned by widowed rancher Jody Mills is the law, in the persons of Sheriff Bobby Singer and Deputy Rufus Turner. Gunslinger John Winchester's already refused to fight his old friends for Roman once. Now, six months later, Roman's used a honey trap to push Bobby into alcoholic despair, and one of the deadliest gunmen in Texas is on his way to El Dorado to help Roman force Jody to capitulate before Bobby sobers up.At least, that's how the situation looks from the outside.But in El Dorado, nothing is as it seems. And when a chance meeting on the border reunites John with his sons and brings him news of Roman's plan, the race is on to free Bobby from a hellish curse and to stop demons and Leviathans from taking over the town... to say nothing of the secrets Sam and John are carrying that could be their undoing.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s)





	1. Gaily Bedight

**Author's Note:**

> Despite this being a totally fictional AU, I’ve tried to excise a few of the movie’s worst historical and geographical errors. There’s no reason, for example, for someone riding from the Rio Grande (south/west of San Antonio) to go through Cuero (east of San Antonio) on the way to the real town of Eldorado (west of San Antonio)... even ignoring the fact that neither Eldorado nor Sonora existed in the early 1870s, when the movie is set! So I’ve moved the fictional El Dorado—note the spelling difference; it’s pronounced differently, too—to an area where ranchers did settle before the Civil War and shuffled other geographical references accordingly. But I have kept the fiction of “sheriff” being more or less equivalent to “police chief” and not a county-wide office.
> 
> Many thanks to jennytork for being an awesome beta and sounding board as usual and for suggesting a couple of the other divergences from the movie!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Warning: Hollywood physics and highly questionable Hollywood-frontier medicine of the absolutely-do-not-try-this-at-home kind. Unfortunately, both figure into the plot too greatly to leave out. There’s also at least one major point of lore that is _deliberately_ AU to work with the movie plot (so nolettersonthatpleasethankyou).

John Winchester let out a sigh of relief as he finally spied the lights of Del Rio, Texas. The last six months or so had been positively hellish, what with the mess in El Dorado and a chupacabra hunt that got him dragged into the El Paso Salt War for months on end, not to mention the souvenir of El Dorado that he still carried in his back. The bullet, of course, he deserved—the pain it caused was fit penance for having accidentally shot a widowed rancher’s adopted daughter, the tragic result of a series of missteps brought on by his coming to town at the invitation of one Dick Roman.

The fact that young Madison Mills had rallied enough to steal his gun and finish what he’d started didn’t assuage his guilt much. Neither did his surmise that she was a werewolf, a conclusion he hadn’t shared with her mother. She’d never killed a human to anyone’s knowledge, and the silver bullets being in his revolver had been an oversight after Roman’s request for John’s services as a gunman caused him to leave the location of his previous hunt sooner after the hunt’s conclusion than usual. Jody Mills hadn’t blamed John for Madison’s death, and neither had her three adopted sons. Her other adopted daughter, Charlie, hadn’t believed his story and ambushed him on his way back to El Dorado.

Fortunately, the bullet had missed everything important; unfortunately, it had lodged against his spine, and Dr. Robert, the town sawbones, hadn’t felt confident trying to remove it. And John... well, even if he’d been willing to forgo the pain, he hadn’t had time to see a specialist during the last six months. He didn’t know when he would, either, especially if his hunch played out and put him on the right trail after Yellow-Eyes after all. One thing was for sure, though: he wanted to stay away from El Dorado as long as he could.

But Madison Mills wasn’t the only reason. Her death would have been hard enough to take without the similarity to the greenhorn mistake he’d made that had cost Bill Harvelle his life. Yet the similarity wouldn’t have seemed quite so strong if he hadn’t blundered into one of the last people he’d wanted to see in El Dorado.

Ellen Harvelle owned a saloon there. He hadn’t even realized she’d moved, never mind being so far south. And on top of that, she’d offered to help him, said her boy Ash—wild-haired kid, some said former Indian captive—might have a tracking spell. She swore up and down that Jo was back East with Jim Murphy, but John just... he just couldn’t let anyone else get killed because of him. Especially not from that family.

In any case, here he was riding into Del Rio, a good two months later than he’d meant to (thank you, El Paso). It had taken Dean’s letter nearly that long to catch up to him, letting him know that Dean’s ‘apprenticeship’ to Daniel Elkins had finally achieved the result Elkins had promised when John agreed to it. Better late than never, though, and John had written back to tell Dean to wait for him here. Now the trick was going to be finding the boy.

So he rode up to the jail—and froze at the sight of the deputy lounging outside the open door with his hat over his face and his feet up on the porch rail.

“Well, at least you’re _outside_ ,” John grumbled.

Dean tipped his hat back with a cheeky grin and put his feet on the ground. “Hey, Pa. ’Bout time.”

“What sheriff would hire you as a deputy?”

“You’re lookin’ at him,” said Caleb, coming to the door. “Bunch o’ coyote-form skinwalkers had been attacking the ranches around here, plus making trouble in their human forms. We had enough silver to take out the whole pack. But they’d killed the sheriff just about the time we got here, so....” He put his thumb behind the lapel of his vest, showing off his tin star.

John snorted in amusement and shook his head. “Mind if I steal my son back?”

“Not at all. Glad to see him go,” Caleb added with a playful sock to Dean’s shoulder.

Dean laughed, took off his badge, and slapped it into Caleb’s waiting hand as he stood. “I’ll pick up my gear on the way out of town. Want to leave Cochise here with Impala, Pa?”

John considered, nodded, dismounted, and gave his appaloosa’s reins to Caleb. “That cantina up the street. Food any good?”

“Good as any,” Dean replied. “See you, Caleb.”

John and Caleb shared a smile and a nod, and the two Winchesters made their way through the dark streets to the cantina.

As they walked, Dean gave John a more appraising look than he had in front of Caleb. “Heard you got shot,” he said quietly.

“Six months ago,” John confirmed. “I’m all right, though. But tell me—you _did_ get the gun?”

“I did. It’s in the safe at the jail. Town’s been quiet enough since the skinwalkers bought it that we’ve been able to keep it under 24-hour guard.”

“Good. You have much trouble convincing Elkins to keep his word?”

Dean huffed. “Might have. He kept adding to the terms of the deal—one more hunt, one more, one more. Caleb was about ready to quit.”

“So what happened?”

“Nest got the drop on us. Middle of town, broad daylight. Couple of men from the 10th Cav happened to be riding through town, helped us out, but one of the vamps got Elkins.”

“Dead or turned?”

“Dead. Personal grudge, apparently.”

John sighed.

“His wife, Darla, she’d been trying to get him to ease up on us. Said she didn’t see what was so special about one old gun that he’d be so miserly with it. Gave it to me no questions asked, and paid us both for our trouble.”

“Paid?!”

Dean held up a hand. “I tried to turn her down. But she’d been his best girl when he had a saloon up in Wyoming, before the war. She said he’d treated us the way he’d treated his girls—constant demands, promises never quite fulfilled, room and board and just enough pay to be legal but not enough to leave. The work was different, that was all. So she paid us what she thought we were owed, in cash, and wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

John sighed again. “May be a good thing that vamp caught up to him before I did.”

Dean let out a humorless chuckle, and they went into the cantina and ordered. While they waited for their food, a couple of pretty young things came over with a box of dominos, and soon the four of them were engrossed in a game of Mexican Train. John was not so involved in the game, however, that he could miss the arrival of a group of four men led by a tall, gangrel fellow with a deep scar down the middle of one side of his face. The injury had apparently been so severe that it had mangled the man’s eye... and John didn’t know whether to hope or worry that it looked yellow from a certain angle. The hunch that had led him here hadn’t included this potential wrinkle; what it meant remained to be seen.

“Pa,” Dean prompted softly. “It’s your turn.”

John turned his attention back to the game but kept an ear out just in case these fellows meant trouble.

And that’s how, despite the volume at which the cantina band was playing, he heard a familiar but unexpected voice say in a quiet but dangerous tone, “Tyson Brady.”

Dean’s head shot up, but John put a hand on his arm to stop him from calling out. They couldn’t risk getting involved—yet. Besides, the unarmed new arrival had his back to them; even if he had seen them, he had other business there.

“Yeah?” returned a blond fellow from the gunmen’s table. “Something I can do for you, mister?”

“You remember this ring?” asked the newcomer, displaying something on a necklace.

Brady snorted. “Now why the hell would I remember a ring?”

“You killed the lady who was wearing it.”

The cantina went silent at that declaration.

“Ladies,” Dean ordered quietly and made a shooing motion.

The girls took the hint and left the room in a hurry.

Brady, however, was focused on his accuser, though judging from his smirk, he didn’t seem overly worried. “Just who was this lady I killed? Friend of yours?”

“You could say that,” the accuser replied. “We were supposed to get married this spring.”

“When did I do this, boy?”

“A few months ago. November 2, to be exact, in Independence. Her name was Jessica Moore; we went to school together at Baylor.”

“You remember this girl, Brady?” asked the scarred gunman.

Brady chuckled cruelly. “Yeah, I remember. But Jess was no lady.”

“You’re a fine one to judge,” the accuser stated, making an effort to keep his voice calm and level. “You broke in, cut her up, and burned down the house. You know, you really didn’t have to do all that... considering that you were trying to threaten _me_.”

John had to force himself not to react beyond gripping Dean’s arm harder.

“Well, I’m sure glad you remember, Mr. Brady,” the accuser continued. “Went to a lot of trouble to find you. Now I think you’d better stand up.”

Brady didn’t move.

“Stand up, Brady,” ordered the scarred gunman. “I’m curious to see how he does this. He doesn’t have a gun. And like he said, you didn’t have to burn down the house.”

“Why not?” Brady countered. “He was in it.”

John’s skin crawled.

“Stand up, Brady,” the scarred gunman repeated.

Finally, with a contemptuous snort, Brady stood and reached for his gun. But before he could draw, the accuser reached down the back of his shirt and flung a knife so fast that John didn’t actually see it until it stuck in Brady’s chest. And Brady, lit up from the inside as with hellfire, gasped and fell and died. Everyone froze in shock while the accuser retrieved his knife, wiped it clean on Brady’s shirt, and started to leave.

Then one of the other gunmen stood. “You with the ring.”

The accuser paused.

“You killed Brady ’cause he killed a friend of yours. Just so happens that Brady was a friend of mine. So let’s see if you can do that trick twice!” On _twice_ he pulled his gun—

—and John shot it out of his hand. Then John looked past the idiot to another gunman who was reaching for his own gun. “I’d let it drop, friend.”

“Me?” asked the second idiot, feigning innocence, as if his wide-brimmed hat didn’t make him totally conspicuous.

“Yes, you,” Dean growled, aiming his own gun at said idiot.

Said idiot pulled his gun out with thumb and forefinger and dropped it.

Satisfied, John returned his attention to the first idiot. “Pick up your gun. You want to try again now?”

The first idiot started to reach for his gun, then paused. “Against which one of you?”

John raised one eyebrow. “Me first.”

The accuser frowned. “As I recall—”

“Stay out of this,” John ordered, then addressed the first idiot again. “Pick it up.”

“Now just a second—”

“Tell me about it later.”

“I’ll tell you now.”

“Shut up,” John ordered before pressing the first idiot again. “Go on! You were plenty willing when you had a kid—”

“Hold it,” the scarred gunman interrupted. “Don’t get mad, mister. Before you start anything, I can’t afford to lose another man. You promise to take Roy’s place?”

The first idiot—Roy—looked shocked. “You got a lot of faith in me, don’t you, Nelse?”

“Faith can move mountains, Roy,” the scarred gunman—Nelse—replied, not looking away from John. “But it can’t beat a faster draw. There’s only three men I know with his kind of speed. One’s dead; the other’s me; and the third is John Winchester.”

“There’s others,” John countered.

“Which are you?”

“I’m Winchester.”

Roy gulped and scuttled back from his gun.

Nelse ordered Roy and his pal to pick up their guns and take Brady to the undertaker, then gave the cantina owner permission to start the music again. “Like to talk to you, Winchester,” he said after that, leaning back in his chair with a glass of bourbon in his hand. “Name’s Nelse McLeod.”

 _No, it isn’t_ , John almost countered, but even if he were sure, the Colt was still at the jail. And if he were wrong, McLeod was notorious as the deadliest gun south of the Nueces. He almost never traveled north of Laredo, and only once as far as Eagle Pass to John’s knowledge; for him to be here in Del Rio must mean trouble.

“McLeod,” John acknowledged instead, walking forward to cover for Dean, who was edging over to the other kid. “Pretty far off your range, aren’t you?”

“Little,” McLeod conceded. “You working now?”

“No.”

“What would you say if I tried to hire you on?”

“First I’d ask about the money.”

“Money’s good.”

“Then I’d ask about the job.”

“There’s a little range war up near El Dorado.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. “El Dorado? Mind telling me who hired you?”

“Fella named Dick Roman. You heard of him?”

“We’ve met. He offered me the job a few months back. I didn’t take it. Know who you’re going up against?”

“Yeah, the sheriff. Bobby Singer. I understand he used to be pretty good with a gun.”

“Not just _pretty_ good. He’s—”

“One of the other men you were talking about. Well, he used to be. He’s not anymore.”

John frowned. “What happened?”

McLeod snorted. “What usually happens to a man? A woman. Seems he tangled with some wandering petticoat, been drunk ever since.”

“And you’re figuring to move in before he sobers up or before they get a new sheriff?”

McLeod nodded.

John wasn’t sure whether he believed that report, and not just because he didn’t think that sounded like the way Bobby would react to that kind of abandonment. Bobby definitely hadn’t been in that kind of state six months earlier. It had been a shock to have him corner John at the Roadhouse with the truth about that range war, though his story had been enough to convince John not to take Roman’s job. But... well, anything could happen in six months. Much as John hated the prospect of going back, he knew he needed to investigate.

The main question was whether or not to let the two behind him tag along. They had, wisely, stayed put long enough to hear this entire exchange. John knew they’d want to help. He just didn’t know whether they should.

Before he could decide, though, McLeod turned his head to look past John’s shoulder. “You’re pretty good with that knife,” he said to the kid. “Can you use a gun?”

“If I could, I’d be using one,” the kid returned.

John didn’t like the sound of that, but he tried not to let his concern show. At least McLeod took the comment for the refusal it was and didn’t push his offer.

McLeod looked at Dean next. “You interested?”

“No, thanks,” was Dean’s only reply.

McLeod snorted and looked back at John. “And you’re not coming in.”

“No,” John replied.

“I suppose you have your reasons.” McLeod finally sat forward and put his glass on the table. “Probably just as well. Two like us in the same bunch, sooner or later we’d have to find out which one of us was faster.” And there was that flicker of yellow again—in both eyes this time.

John just nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“So long, Winchester. Men,” he added with a nod to the boys.

John started to move away from the table but paused, deliberately. “Oh, McLeod... would you like to walk out that door ahead of us?”

“No, I don’t believe I would,” McLeod replied but stood anyway.

“I didn’t think so.”

McLeod led the way to the door and paused in the doorway. “Walt, Roy,” he called. “Can you hear me?”

“We hear you,” Roy called back.

“I’m coming out.” McLeod walked outside first, with John and the boys close behind him. “Where are you?”

“Over here,” Walt called from the shadows behind a staircase outside the building across the street.

McLeod ordered them to come out into the light and drop their guns, which the boys collected without John’s prompting. Then McLeod ordered Roy and Walt back into the cantina. “That all right, Winchester?” he asked then.

“Good enough,” John replied. “We’ll leave those with the sheriff, if it’s all right with you. Your boys can pick ’em up on their way out of town.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“Much obliged.”

“Call it professional courtesy.” And McLeod went back inside.

“C’mon,” Dean said quietly. “We can get something to eat at the jail.”

So the kid got his horse, and the three of them walked silently back to the jail, where the boys deposited the guns on Caleb’s desk. But John was more concerned about the defenses of the place and closed and locked the door behind him. “Caleb,” he asked, “you got wards up in here?”

Caleb blinked. “Why?”

“Humor me.”

“Iron bars on all the windows, plus that.” Caleb pointed up at a devil’s trap carved into the ceiling over the door.

John nodded once. “Where’s your most secure cell?”

“Back here,” Dean replied and led the way to a cell with iron on three sides and windowless rock on the other three. He quickly moved an extra cot into it, and John hustled the kid inside—there wasn’t room for a third cot, but John was willing to sleep on the floor.

Then John pulled the cell door shut. “Lock it,” he told Caleb.

“John,” Caleb objected.

“Dammit, Caleb, humor me!”

Sighing, Caleb locked the door. “Did you have time to eat? You weren’t gone all that long.”

“No, we didn’t. Something came up.”

“All right. I’ll fix something. Be a few minutes.”

“That’s fine. Thanks.”

Caleb nodded and went back to the front office, which had a small stove.

Only then could John let down his guard and allow himself to think and say the name of the boy he turned to now, taller and thinner but otherwise not much changed by the last four years. “Hi, Sammy.”

“Hey, Pa,” Sam returned quietly. “Been a long time.”

“Too long.” And John pulled him into a hug.

Sam stiffened, but only for a moment. Then he let out a shuddering sigh and returned the hug. “Thanks for the help.”

“Just wish I hadn’t been tied up clear across the state in November.”

“Same here,” said Dean. “Except Caleb and I were in Colorado. That was when we got jumped by that vamp nest.”

Sam backed away from John to give Dean an even warmer hug. Once he broke that embrace, he said, “What are the odds Bobby’s girlfriend showed up about the same time?”

“Better than even,” John replied, gesturing for the boys to sit down and taking a seat himself. “Tell us what happened.”

Sam sighed and fiddled with Jessica’s ring for a moment. “I don’t know why that thing pretended not to know me, unless it was trying to make me look bad. The real Brady wasn’t a gunfighter. He was a friend of mine at Baylor, studying physiology—he’d planned to go to medical school back East. But then our second year, he came back from Christmas break... completely different. He was a laudanum fiend.[1] What I didn’t know at the time was that he was a literal fiend as well.”

Dean frowned. “Whoa, wait, what—”

John held up a hand. “Let him tell it, son.”

“That spring, Brady introduced me to Jess,” Sam continued. “She was studying in the Female College and had been staying in the ladies’ dormitory, but her father had just bought her a house with the provision that she find someone to rent a room to help with the upkeep and food and such. The rent she was asking was less than what the boarding house was charging, and we liked each other, so... well, I started out renting a room from her. But after I proposed... well....” He trailed off, blushing.

“You shared her bed?”

Sam nodded. “That’s why the demon said she wasn’t a lady—but we were faithful, Pa. So we hadn’t said the vows yet! It’s not like either of us was sharing a bed with anyone else!”

“I’m not judging, Sam. Just tell us what happened in November.”

Sam rubbed at his forehead a little. “It started in October, actually. I started having nightmares about Jess dying. But I thought they were just nightmares, so I didn’t do anything about it.”

John frowned in concern.

“On the day it happened, one of the professors asked me to come help with some repairs—the school’s still rebuilding after the way the Rebs treated the place during the war. It was late when I got home, and I thought I heard Jess in the bath, so I went up to our room and lay down on the bed. Then... then I looked up....” Sam’s voice broke, and he fought tears for a moment as Dean rubbed his back. “Sh-she was pinned to the ceiling, Pa, right over our bed, with her belly sliced open. And then she burst into flame. I t-tried to get her down, but....” He broke off again, shaking his head.

“How’d you get out?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know. I have no memory of it. One minute I was in the house, and the next I was outside and the fire brigade was trying to save the house.” Sam sniffled and held up the ring. “This was all that was left of Jess.”

John shut his eyes against the flood of memories of Mary’s death. The similarities couldn’t be coincidental.

Sam waited until John opened his eyes to pick up the story again. “I knew it had to be our kind of thing, after... what you told us about Ma. But I didn’t know where you and Dean were, and... even if I had....”

“I woulda come, Sammy,” Dean said softly. “If I’d known, if I’d been able, I’da been there.”

“So would I,” John agreed. “That last fight... I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry we weren’t there.”

Sam sniffled again and leaned against Dean a little. “Well, anyway, I didn’t know of any hunters in the area, so... I went to New Orleans and found a friend of yours. Missouri Mosely.”

John inhaled sharply. There weren’t many places where an unmarried former slave could live in safety, never mind one with Missouri’s gifts. She’d been all right in Lawrence back in the ’50s, having used her Sight to escape from the Houston area while Texas was still a republic and having established a new identity in Kansas under a new name. There’d been enough abolitionists in the area to shelter her if anyone had come looking. But John had heard she’d been forced to flee to Canada when the Troubles kicked up. Maybe her Sight made New Orleans safer for her now despite her skin color.

“Missouri?” Dean echoed, frowning. “Who’s she?”

“A clairvoyant, a real one,” Sam explained. “She told me Pa went to her in Lawrence after Ma died. She read my memories and said it looked like either the same thing that killed Ma or the same kind of thing. She didn’t know how to help me avenge Jess... but she knew someone who could. A medium, Pamela Barnes—she goes by Mademoiselle Pamela. Turns out, she knows Bobby.”

John nodded a little as a vague memory surfaced of Bobby mentioning someone by that name.

“Well, Pamela figured out that Brady was possessed. And she had a weapon that could kill demons.”

“That knife.”

Sam nodded and pulled it out of the sheath he kept hidden behind his collar. He handed the knife to Dean to examine—a Bowie-style knife with a serrated edge and strange runes on its blade. “She was willing to sell, but she wouldn’t take money. Her price was my gun... and my ability to shoot.”

John gasped.

“Pa, that’s _all_ she took, I swear. Missouri confirmed it. And I figured that was a small price to pay to be able to avenge Jess and kill that demon. I can still defend myself in other ways.”

“Pa,” Dean said before John could object, “we’ve got the Colt. As long as Sam sticks with us, he’ll be okay.”

John didn’t get a chance to object to that, either, because just then Caleb returned with their food. “Everything’s quiet so far,” Caleb reported as he passed a tray with three bowls of stew through the slot in the cell door to John. “What exactly has you so riled up, anyway?”

“Sam killed a demon at the cantina,” John replied. “And I’m not sure it was alone.”

Caleb hissed. “All right. I’ll keep watch. Y’all should be all right in there, though.”

“Thanks, Caleb. I’ll plan to head out before first light—got to get back up to El Dorado as quick as I can.”

Caleb nodded. “Let me get you some coffee.” And he left.

“So what’s the story about El Dorado?” Dean asked as John sat down and held out the tray for the boys to take their bowls. “Who’s this Dick Roman?”

John grimaced. “Carpetbagger from Chicago, seems to make his living off of other people’s misery. No one knows where he gets his money, but it spends the same as anyone else’s. Bought up a bunch of ranch land right after the war—you know how it was.”

The boys nodded and kept eating, needing no further explanation of the town’s predicament. Hunters knew better than most what the Civil War had stirred up all over the country and how Reconstruction had devastated the former Confederate states, including Texas. It might take decades for some of the ranchers in that part of the state to get back on their feet. Many had already sold their homesteads and moved to towns where they might have a better chance to earn a living, and folks like Roman were buying up land for a song—or a bullet or a hex. The only thing they couldn’t do on the Edwards Plateau without attracting hunters’ attention was to magic more water out of the land. Rain was usually plentiful enough in the spring to keep things green and fill stock tanks, but rivers and creeks were few and far between in that corner of the Hill Country, and lakes were as scarce as dragons. Wells might be feasible once drilling equipment improved, but since El Dorado was on the edge of the Llano Uplift, it was tough to get through the granite bedrock to reach any water there might be underground.

“Well, Roman’s hit the point where he can’t grow any further until he gets more water. Only trouble is, the water rights he needs belong to a widow lady, Jody Mills. She and her husband got here back when Texas was still a republic. Lost her husband and sons in an Apache raid, but then she adopted a passel of kids off the orphan trains. They held on through the rough times, worked real hard to keep the place out of debt, and she’s not about to sell up now that the price of beef and horses is coming back up. Bobby’s been on her side all along. Roman tried to hire me to push her out, but Bobby set me straight. And to be honest... I didn’t like Roman. Something slick and shark-like about that man; I don’t trust him.”

Dean nodded again. “So we’re goin’ to El Dorado to check on Bobby and help Mrs. Mills against McLeod, is that it?”

John hesitated. “I’m not so sure about ‘we.’ I think McLeod might be possessed by the demon that killed your mother.”

The boys looked at each other, and then Dean set down his bowl and leaned forward. “Pa, with Sam like he is, he and the Colt need to stay together. If you want the Colt, you’ll have to take him. And I’m not lettin’ Sammy out of my sight until this is over.”

“Dean,” Sam objected.

Dean ignored him. “Face it, we’re stronger together. Take tonight in the cantina. Sure, Sam handled Brady all right, but what would have happened if you and I hadn’t been there to hold off Roy and Walt?”

“I want you boys safe,” John stressed.

Sam huffed. “Sure, so safe you sent Dean to Colorado and left me in Independence for four years with no one to contact when the life caught up to me again. I don’t need a minder, but I’m starting to wonder if maybe you do.”

Caleb interrupted again by bringing in the coffee. “You probably should stick together, John,” he said as he handed the cups through. “If the rumors about Bobby are true and Rufus is stuck riding herd on him, who would you call for backup? Ellen?”

John grumbled under his breath but didn’t argue. He thought maybe he’d be able to sneak out during the night and get away while the boys were still sleeping.

He should have known they’d be waiting for him behind the jail, with Dean’s black mare and Sam’s buckskin saddled alongside Cochise. And Dean had the Colt on his left hip and an expression that told John he wouldn’t be giving it up any time soon.

“We’re coming, Pa,” they chorused.

John sighed. “ _Fine_. But I want you out of the action as much as possible.”

Both boys rolled their eyes and mounted in perfect unison, leaving John to untie Cochise’s reins and join them.

* * *

[1] Laudanum was a solution of morphine in alcohol, used for legitimate medical purposes as a painkiller but also often abused just like other opiates are today. (In the 1870s, most other drugs commonly abused in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries either didn’t exist, weren’t recognized as such, or weren’t popular intoxicants.)


	2. In Sunshine and in Shadow

“My guess,” John said as he led the way toward the east end of town, “is that they’ll ride north and follow the road through Rocksprings and Mountain Home. McLeod doesn’t know this area well, and I’d bet the demon doesn’t, either. It’s about 160 miles to El Dorado by that route.”

“Four days’ ride, if they keep to forty a day,” Sam stated.

“But that road makes a big curve,” Dean noted. “Adds close to a day just between Del Rio and Rocksprings compared to the crow’s flight.”

John nodded. “Precisely. So I’m thinking we head northeast as straight across country as we can, maybe stop in Dixie or Segovia if we have to. That should save us a day, maybe two if we push it.”

“Yes, sir,” the boys chorused.

“If we go through Segovia, Sam, I’ll want to stop for a bit to talk with the Swede, see if he can’t find you a gun you can use.”

Sam huffed. “Pa, it’s no use. I can’t use _any_ gun.”

“Swede Larsen is the best gunsmith in this part of the state. If anyone can come up with a gun for a man who can’t shoot, it’d be the Swede.”

Sam huffed again, but Dean said, “Hey. Leave it.”

John’s store of travel food had gotten low on the way from El Paso, but Caleb had sent a satchel with Dean, so the travelers had cold biscuits and jerky for breakfast as the sun rose. The boys kept their conversation as light as they could, focusing on four years’ worth of catching up, but John mostly listened with one ear and kept his attention on the sky, the horizon, and the birds, watching for any sign that Yellow-Eyes was following them.

He had just begun trying to decide what to do about lunch, while the boys were singing an off-key rendition of “The Blue Juniata,” when the bullet decided to remind him of its presence. The searing pain whited out his vision, and the only thing that broke it was the jolt he received upon hitting the ground.

He was still trying to catch his breath and get to his knees without needing his now-useless right arm when Dean hauled him upright to a sitting position. “Pa, you all right?”

“I’m... I’m fine, Dean,” John gasped. “Just need a minute.” He started trying to massage his right hand with his left.

“What happened?”

John glanced up to see that Sam had tied the horses to a nearby bush and was coming back over to him and Dean. He took a couple more deep breaths before he felt he could talk. “When I got shot, the doctor couldn’t get the bullet out. It’s still in my back. Sometimes it presses against something, and I get a screaming pain and then... nothing. My arm goes numb, and I can’t use this hand.”

“How long does that last?”

“A while. Few minutes, maybe. Never timed it.”

The boys looked at each other, and Sam suggested, “Since we’re stopped, we might as well eat here.”

John nodded. “But first, Sam... let me see you shoot Dean’s gun.”

“ _Pa_ —”

“Son, I’m not going to understand what Pamela did to you until I see it for myself.”

Dean sighed and pulled his pearl-handled Colt revolver out of the holster on his right hip. He flipped open the cylinder to show both John and Sam that it was fully loaded, then closed it and handed it to Sam handle first without touching the cylinder again.

John looked around as Sam stepped a few paces away. “There’s an agarita bush out there,” he said, pointing it out with his left hand. “See if you can hit that.”

Sam nodded and stopped with the gun held comfortably at his side. Then, with Winchester speed, he raised it, cocked it—and aimed it at John’s heart before pulling the trigger six times.

The gun didn’t fire even once.

Then Sam uncocked the gun and handed it back to Dean, again without touching the cylinder. “You want to show Pa it’s not jammed?”

Without hesitation, Dean aimed at the bush and shot six leaves off a protruding branch, to the dismay of the birds nesting in the dense, prickly foliage.

Sam turned to John with one eyebrow raised in challenge. John had no idea what to say.

* * *

The Winchesters didn’t stop in Dixie or Segovia after all. Though John’s temporary physical paralysis had worn off after only a couple of minutes, his mental paralysis on the question of Sam’s condition hadn’t yet worn off at all. All he knew to do was to get to El Dorado as fast as possible. And in the end, the shortcut got them into town shortly after midnight on their third night of travel.

“Where are we headed, Pa?” Dean asked as the three men rode onto Main Street.

“To see a girl,” John said absently, looking for the alley that would lead behind the Roadhouse.

“A girl?!” the boys chorused.

John glared at them. “Don’t you think I can know a girl?”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, but Sam laughed.

It was only a few dozen yards further to the right turn, which John took and motioned for the boys to follow. There was barely enough room for all three horses to stand single-file behind the saloon, but John rode far enough down the alley that Sam could get past the corner of the neighboring building before stopping and dismounting. Ellen’s lamp was still lit, so John handed his reins to Dean and rapped quietly on her window until she threw a dressing gown over her shoulders and came to investigate.

“John!” she gasped as she opened the window, being careful not to disturb the salt line.

John motioned for her to keep her voice down. “Ellen, keep it quiet. I’ve got to talk to you.”

She nodded. “I’ll let you in.”

As she shut the window, John turned back to the boys. “You two stay out here and keep watch.”

“Yes, sir,” they chorused.

The door opened before he could give any further instructions. “John, you sure pick the damnedest times—” Ellen broke off, spotting the boys, and quickly tied her dressing gown closed to hide her unmentionables. “These your two?”

Both boys removed their hats. “Yes, ma’am,” said Dean. “I’m Dean; this is Sam.”

She nodded. “Boys. You grew up good.”

“Wait here,” John repeated and walked inside, shutting the door behind him.

And Ellen shocked the hell out of him by throwing her arms around his neck. After a moment’s hesitation, he returned the hug. They’d patched things up somewhat while she’d been helping Bobby and Rufus nurse him back to health after he was shot, but he hadn’t realized how much she’d thawed toward him.

“So glad you’re here, John,” she whispered. “I’ve got so much to tell you.”

“And there’s a lot I ought to tell you,” he replied and broke the embrace. “But first I need some answers. Are there any strangers in town?”

She shook her head. “No. I’d have known if there were.”

“Well, this one you’d have noticed. Dark, thin-faced man, with a scar here”—he traced the scar on the left side of his own face—“and a marled eye. Nelse McLeod.”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“Should have had four or five riders with him.”

“He’s not here yet.”

“Good. At least we beat them in. What about omens?”

“Bad electrical storm out toward Rocksprings a couple days ago. Why?”

He sighed. “That’s what I was afraid of. I think Yellow-Eyes could be riding McLeod.”

She nodded slowly. “We can ask Ash to do his tracking spell tomorrow.”

“I’d appreciate it. Now, about Bobby.”

“You want the full story?”

“Just don’t make it too long,” he teased.

She chuckled. “Didn’t see a lot of him after you left, although he’d come in for a drink once in a while. I gather from Rufus he was thinking of going out to Independence, check on Sam, but he didn’t say why. Just a hunch, maybe. Woulda taken him the better part of a week to get there, though.”

He swore under his breath. “I wish he _had_ gone.”

“Why? What happened?”

“I’ll tell you later. What stopped Bobby from going?”

“A girl came to town in October. Megan Masters. Just stepped off the stage, and... well, you know how kind he is.”

“Yeah. She probably had big sad eyes and a long sad story.”

“And a knack for keeping him away from Rufus and me and staying away from any place with wards.”

He swore again. “You’d think after what happened to Karen....”

She nodded. “I know. We think she put some kind of whammy on him, blinded him to reason. She was two-timing him with Dick Roman, too, though they weren’t often seen in town together. Still, everyone in town knew Meg was no good, and lots of people tried to tell Bobby so. Rufus came straight out with it, and Bobby knocked him down.” She sighed. “Then two months ago, she ran off with a drummer[1]—and left his corpse about ten miles west of town, throat slashed, blood drained, enough damage to the wagon and enough money missing for it to look like a robbery gone wrong. Bobby’s not been sober since. Ash thinks he’s still cursed.”

“Well, we need to break that curse in a hurry. Is he over at the jail?”

“Yep. He’s still sheriff, by some miracle.”

“Well, we’ll go over—oh, do you have a room for the boys and me?”

She smiled. “Sure. Say, have you eaten recently?”

“No.”

“I’ll have something for you when you get back.” She paused. “I am glad you’re here.”

He returned the smile. “Don’t tell anyone you saw us.”

“I won’t.”

He hugged her again without thinking and left.

“Well, we found one thing out,” Sam stated quietly as John mounted his horse again.

John looked at him. “What’s that?”

“You know a girl.”

John and Dean both chuckled, and they rode across town to the jail, where Rufus was on guard outside with a shotgun and called to them to stop in the middle of the street in a patch of moonlight and identify themselves.

“Poughkeepsie,” John called back.

Rufus lowered his shotgun. “Come ahead.”

John nodded, and he and the boys continued to the hitching rail to dismount while Rufus came down off the porch.

“Sorry, Leatherneck,” Rufus said more quietly. “Didn’t recognize these young bucks you got with you.”

“My sons,” John replied. “Dean, Sam, this is Rufus Turner. Old friend of Bobby’s.”

The boys murmured greetings and took turns shaking hands with Rufus.

Then Rufus turned back to John. “You said ‘Poughkeepsie.’ What’s the news?”

“Roman’s starting some more trouble. Could be more of it than he knows.”

“Ain’t surprised, after that she-devil took Bobby down.”

“I just talked to Ellen.”

Rufus pointed to the back of the jail. “He’s back there, sleepin’. But be careful how you wake him. Whatever Meg did to him, it gave him one hell of a temper when he’s drinkin’.”

John nodded. “You got some place to put these horses under cover?”

“Sure.”

“And I’d just as soon everybody didn’t know we were back in town yet.”

“Gotcha. C’mon, boys.”

Dean gave Cochise’s reins to Rufus, and they and Sam went to care for the horses while John went into the jail and, finding the office empty, continued through the doorway set in the bars that separated the office from the cell block. He found Bobby, half-dressed, passed out on a cot in the back. Lighting a lamp revealed a half-empty bottle of red-eye lying on the floor near Bobby’s hand. With a sigh, John picked up the wash bucket from the dry sink and dumped it on Bobby’s face, and Bobby flailed and spluttered and swore his way to consciousness. Then he reached for the liquor, but John kicked the bottle away.

Bobby blearily looked up at him. “Wha’th’ell are _you_ doin’ here?”

“I’m looking at a tin star with a drunk pinned on it,” John growled.

“John Winchester.” Bobby laughed drunkenly. “How ’bout that? Good ol’ John. Help me up outta here, John,” he continued, holding up his left hand.

Warily, John did so—and barely managed to dodge when Bobby took a swing at his head. Bobby followed up with a punch to John’s gut, but John’s hand landed on a metal basin and brought it down on Bobby’s skull with a resounding clang. John then dropped the basin, grabbed the front of Bobby’s sodden union suit, and pulled his left fist back for a knockdown blow.

“John!” Rufus called from behind him. “He won’t feel it.”

John suddenly realized that Bobby’s eyes were crossed and vacant. “Well, I owe him one,” he stated and let go of Bobby, who collapsed backward onto the cot like a rag doll.

“How is he, Pa?” Dean asked as John walked back into the office area. “Did you talk to him?”

“Couldn’t,” John replied grimly. “Any of you know a fast way to sober a man up, maybe break this curse?”

Sam frowned thoughtfully. “I know a recipe that might work. It would sober him up, anyway; that’s what it’s supposed to do. But it might work on the curse, too. It brought Brady back to himself for a couple of days, at least—didn’t get rid of the demon, but I think maybe it bound the thing for a little while, and it stayed away from the laudanum for a couple of months after, until it needed to distract me again.”

“What’s in it?”

“Let’s see... hot mustard, cayenne pepper, asafetida, gunpowder, and a few drops each of ipecac and croton oil.”[2]

“Croton oil?!” Rufus echoed. “Well, I’ll be a suck-egg mule.”

Dean looked disgusted. “Sammy, you know what that mixture would do to a man?”

Sam smiled. “Guaranteed to kill or cure.”

For lack of another option, John shrugged his approval. “Rufus, you know where you could get this stuff this time of night?”

“Greener’s Store should have it,” Rufus answered. “Might have to wake him up.”

John nodded. “Go on with him, Sam. Make sure he doesn’t forget anything.”

“PA!” Dean yelled suddenly, and John ducked away just as Bobby tried to crack a chair over his head but missed and hit the bars above the doorway instead.

John laid Bobby out with a single punch and turned back to Rufus and Sam, who were hesitating at the front door. “Aren’t you going?”

“But—” Rufus began.

“He’s all right. Just get it before he wakes up again.”

Rufus nodded and led Sam outside, and John and Dean carried Bobby into a cell, which had not only a cot with dry bedding but also a door that locked.

Twenty minutes later, Sam and Rufus returned with their purchases, and Sam started mixing the rancid-smelling ingredients in a copper bowl while Rufus opened a window. Once Dean added the gunpowder, Sam poured the sludgy black mixture into a mug.

“I hope you don’t blow him up,” John quipped.

“Okay, Dean,” Sam said, ignoring the remark. “You sit on his legs, and Pa, you pin down his arms.”

“Don’t worry about us,” John stated as the three of them filed into the cell and Rufus came back to watch. “Just get hold of his nose. If he can’t breathe, he’ll _have_ to swallow.”[3]

“Give ’im an extra one for me,” Rufus chimed in.

So Dean pinned Bobby’s legs while John pinned his arms. Sam pinched Bobby’s nose and waited for him to start breathing through his mouth, then shoved the rim of the mug into his open mouth and poured in the potion. Bobby gulped loudly, but the stuff went down, and Sam finally released his nose and backed away. John and Dean relaxed their hold as well.

And then Bobby started to seize.

“Let’s get out of here!” John ordered, and he and the boys hustled out of the cell.

Rufus locked the cell door behind them, but Sam and Dean stayed close until the fit passed without Bobby waking up. Then and only then did they allow John to drag them back to the Roadhouse, where they nearly fell asleep in the eggs and bacon Ellen had waiting for them. So she had Ash take them up to their room while she and John sat up and talked a while, getting caught up with each other’s news and not reaching any conclusions about Sam.

That made for a short night for the boys and an even shorter night for John, who had a separate room. But despite the spots where he still ached from tangling with Bobby, John still woke feeling more or less refreshed. He couldn’t say the same for Sam, whose first words to Ellen after “Good morning” were, “Do you have any willow bark?”[4]

“Sure,” Ellen replied, giving him a motherly once-over. “What hurts?”

“Got a headache. It’s nothing.”

She clearly didn’t believe that but went to get him some willow bark extract anyway.

“It is not nothing, little brother,” Dean objected once she was out of earshot. “You think I didn’t hear you keep wakin’ up with nightmares?”

Sam huffed. “Dean.”

John frowned. “What sort of nightmares?”

“Bad ones, sounded like,” Dean replied before Sam could disclaim anything.

“About?”

“Stupid stuff,” Sam said flatly and started to walk away. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Like your dreams about Jess?”

Sam froze.

“Did those give you headaches, too?”

Sam turned around, not quite succeeding in hiding his fear and worry. “Pa....”

John held up a hand. “Son. Tell me what you saw.”

Sam let out a ragged sigh. “You and Dean ran in here chasing somebody. They made Ash tell you he’d gone out the back way. Roy and Walt were at the back door, trying to convince you to go out that way into an ambush. Dean stopped you, and you made Roy go out the back door instead, and he got shot up. You were about to do the same to Walt when... y-you had an attack, a bad one, and then one of Roman’s men knocked Dean out. And McLeod came out and said it was better than he expected, and... and his eyes turned yellow.”

John nodded slowly. “Anything else?”

Sam shook his head and sniffled. “No, sir. That’s when I woke up.”

“All right. Thank you.”

Ellen returned just then with the willow bark, and the men let the subject drop. But John didn’t miss the worried looks Dean kept shooting Sam over breakfast.

The windows and door of the jail were open when the Winchesters went over after breakfast. John announced their arrival from the porch, and Rufus called for them to come in. Everything seemed quiet, but John caught a faint whiff of vomit under the smell of the coffee Rufus was pouring for himself.

After everyone exchanged greetings, John asked, “How’s Bobby?”

“Emptied his stomach about five times,” Rufus replied, “but I got some salt an’ holy water in him after each one, seemed to do some good. Some black stuff came up the first couple of times; couldn’t tell if it was the potion or what. Last time was about 6. Since then, nary a peep. Hasn’t even moved in the last two hours. Reckon he’ll be all right?”

“Ask Sam. It’s his concoction.”

“I don’t know how all right he’ll be,” Sam confessed. “But I do know he won’t be drinking any alcohol for a while.”

“Why not?” Dean asked, holding out a mug for some coffee.

“Well, it does something to a man’s stomach so it naturally won’t hold any liquor.”

Just then Bobby started rattling the cell door feebly. “Hey, Rufus, come open this door,” he called.

Rufus shook his head. “Still drunk. Open it y’self,” he called back. “It ain’t even locked.”

The hinges creaked, and Bobby dragged himself to the door of the cell block, coughing and looking very much the worse for wear. He stopped at the door and looked blearily at the four of them. “My friends,” he said. “My dear good friends. You dirty, lousy, rotten, sheep-herdin’—”[5] Holding his stomach, he lurched toward the desks, slamming the door shut behind him. “What the hell did you do to me? I’m all crawlin’ inside.”

“Just hang on, Uncle Bobby,” Sam said. “It’ll fetch you around.”

Bobby looked up and peered at him. “Sam?”

Sam nodded once. “Hi.”

“When’d you get here?”

“Last night.”

Bobby frowned but started opening drawers in the leather-topped desk that he would normally have shared with Rufus. Not finding what he was looking for, he straightened and demanded, “All right, c’mon, Rufus. Where is it?”

“Top drawer of your desk,” Rufus replied.

Bobby turned to the roll-top desk behind him, opened the top left drawer, and pulled out a full bottle of red-eye. He twisted off the cap but paused and looked at the other men. “Ain’t nobody gonna try and stop me?” he challenged.

“Nobody,” John stated.

Bobby nodded. “That’s a good thing.” He took two long swigs, set the bottle back on the desk—and turned visibly green. “Ooh, you _dirty_...” he groaned as he doubled over and lurched back to the cell block, where he promptly threw up everything he’d drunk and then some.

Sam and Dean smirked at each other and clinked mugs.

After coffee, clean-up, and conversation, Dean stayed at the jail to let Rufus get some rest, and John and Sam went back to the Roadhouse to let Sam sleep off the last of his headache. John took Bobby’s liquor stash with him. Then, with Ellen’s permission, Sam took over at the bar after lunch, and John and Ash went in a back room so Ash could do his tracking spell. Ash chanted under his breath in what sounded like Comanche as he mixed ingredients in a silver bowl, then held the bowl under the map that hung on the wall and dropped a match into the potion. But the flame that leapt from the bowl didn’t burn the map down to a point or burn a single hole in the paper; it landed on the road from Segovia and burned slowly toward El Dorado.

“He’s moving,” Ash reported. “Headed thisaway, probably get here sometime after dark.”

John swore in Seminole.[6] “Just what I was afraid of. He’s in McLeod.”

Ash blew out the flame, and seconds later Ellen knocked on the door and poked her head in. “Sam sent me to get you,” she said. “He saw riders come into town. I had a look—it’s Roman and his men. They’re at Roman’s saloon, across from the jail.”

John swore again and followed Ellen out into the public room. Before he could make up his mind what to do, however, another group of riders came in alongside a buckboard... and though they kicked up a cloud of dust, it couldn’t quite obscure Charlie Mills’ flame-red hair. The Mills family paused outside the Roadhouse, and John could just make out Mrs. Mills giving orders about who was to shop where.

Ellen sighed. “Jody brings the family into town every Saturday afternoon. This is one Saturday I wish she hadn’t.”

“All right,” John said. “Sam, stay here, help Ellen and keep watch. I’ll go get Rufus, have him stay with the Millses.”

Sam frowned. “What if Rufus needs help?”

“He was a cavalry bugler during the Mexican War, still keeps in practice. Expect he’ll take his bugle with him and blow it if there’s trouble.”

“All right, but what if you need help?”

“Hell, boy, don’t you trust your old man?”

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but Ellen interrupted, “He’ll have Dean. That’ll be backup enough. Besides, the fact you can’t shoot doesn’t mean you can’t get shot.”

Sam’s mouth shut in a straight, unhappy line. But John didn’t wait for Sam to come up with a retort. He just put on his hat and walked back to the jail.

“Hey, Pa,” Dean said quietly, so as not to wake Rufus. “You see those folks who just came to town?”

John nodded. “Wake up, Rufus.”

Rufus stirred. “’Time’s it?”

“’Bout 2. Dick Roman just brought his outfit into town to meet McLeod.”

“And Mrs. Mills?”

“Came to town just after he did.”

Rufus swore and sat up. “Reckon I oughta hang around where the Millses are?”

“Wouldn’t hurt. I left Sam at the Roadhouse; he’ll keep an eye on ’em, too. And we’ll keep an eye on our friend across the street.”

“All right.” Rufus got up and collected his rifle and bugle from the rifle rack. “If I run into trouble and need you, I’ll toot m’bugle, and you come runnin’.”

Dean smiled fondly as Rufus left, then turned to John. “Well?”

John just nodded. “How’s Bobby?”

“Still asleep. Woke him up and gave him some more holy water with salt about lunchtime, and it stayed down.”

“Good. Let him sleep, and let me have some coffee.”

Dean sighed and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

[1] In this period, a “drummer” was a traveling salesman, the kind with a wagon full of patent medicines or other cheap doodads, so called because such salesmen originally beat a drum to attract attention.

[2] This list of ingredients is from the movie and would not make safe medicine at all! But I kept it both because purgatives and emetics are used in some American Indian purification rituals and because binding evil spirits is said to be one of the properties of asafetida.

[3] No idea how true this is, but don’t try it at home—I’d guess it’s actually more of a choking/aspiration hazard! (In fact, generally speaking, giving liquids by mouth to any unconscious person is a major medical no-no.)

[4] Before the invention of aspirin (acetylsalicylic acid), salicylic acid extracted from willow bark was widely used as a pain reliever and fever reducer.

[5] In the days before barbed wire fences, shepherds frequently drove their flocks across any open range, regardless of whose it was or whether it was intended for grazing cattle. This tendency would have been less of a problem had the shepherds been more scrupulous about a) treating diseases their sheep were carrying that could infect cattle and b) leaving enough grass behind for the cattle (sheep crop grass closer to the ground than cows’ teeth can reach). And when barbed wire was introduced, shepherds were notorious for cutting fences to continue their former practice, which had the added detriment of leaving the fence open for cattle rustlers and horse thieves. Needless to say, cattlemen and shepherds didn’t get along terribly well.

[6] Hasty Internet research suggests that during the time John was likely to have been in the service, the main conflict in which the Marines were involved was the Second Seminole War (itself proof for Dean’s canon opinion of Florida).


	3. No Spot of Ground

The sun went down with no sign of McLeod. Dean fixed supper, and after he and John ate, he settled at the desk to practice card tricks and play solitaire while John kept watching Roman’s saloon. John was beginning to get restless when the cell door rattled and Bobby emerged, looking more sober and less pale but still pretty rough. He paused at the door to the office as if trying to get his bearings.

John turned away from the window. “Hello, Bobby.”

Bobby squinted a little, then smiled. “Hey, John.” Then he frowned. “How long have you been here?”

“Got in last night,” John replied, walking over to the stove.

Bobby rubbed his jaw. “Did we have a fight or something?”

John flexed his hand, which still ached a little. “Or something.”

Bobby chuckled wryly and walked over to the desks. “Hey, Dean. You an’ Caleb survived Elkins?”

“Barely,” Dean returned with a smile.

Bobby chuckled again and started opening drawers. “So, uh... why are y’all here, John?”

“Waiting on someone,” John answered. “Name’s Nelse McLeod.”

Bobby’s eyebrows shot up. “McLeod? With the....” He traced McLeod’s scar on his own face.

John nodded. “That’s the one. Want some coffee?”

“No.” Bobby reached across Dean to look in the other drawers of the leather-topped desk, then turned to the roll-top desk.

“We ran into him in Del Rio,” John continued. “Asked us to work with him on a job. Range war. But he said it’d be easy. All we had to worry about was the drunken sheriff.”

Bobby froze and looked at John, hurt.

John held out a mug. “Sure you don’t want some coffee?”

“Yecch,” Bobby replied, rubbing his stomach and walking over to John. “Nelse McLeod. And he’s working for Roman.”

“That’s what he said.”

“Well?”

“We turned him down.”

“So why are you here?”

“Well, for one thing, I owe the Millses. For another, it’s not really McLeod, not anymore. Yellow-Eyes has him.”

Bobby took a deep breath and nodded. “And Dean’s got the Colt?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean replied.

Bobby nodded, turned away, and doubled over briefly, catching himself on the bars. Then he turned back to John in a cold sweat. “John, I... I gotta have a drink.”

This much wasn’t a curse, not anymore. This was addiction, plain and simple. John could tell because he’d been there himself. “You won’t find anything around here,” he said as Bobby started looking in the wardrobe in the corner.

“Why?”

“I threw it away.”

Bobby spun and stared at John incredulously.

“ _Now_ do you want some coffee?”

“No, I don’t want coffee, idjit! I want a _drink!_ ”

“Well, go get one.”

Bobby sighed. “Where’s m’hat?”

“Is this yours?” Dean asked, picking up a dirty, beat-up hat that had been left on the desk.

“No, but it’ll do.” Bobby snatched the hat away from Dean, plopped it on his head, and headed across the street to Roman’s saloon without stumbling terribly much.

Not thirty seconds later, McLeod and his gang rode into town. John, who was watching from the doorway, quickly pulled the door most of the way closed to hide himself and Dean as the riders dismounted and walked into Roman’s saloon. And about thirty seconds after they entered, the saloon erupted in several rounds of loud, raucous, derisive laughter.

Bobby came back not long after that, cradling a bottle of whiskey against his stomach. He walked straight past John and started toward the back, but when he got to the doorway, he stopped and leaned against the bars. “They laughed at me, John,” he confessed, near tears, and turned around. “Right in front of McLeod, they just laughed at me.”

John sighed. “They’ve been laughing at you for months. You just haven’t been sober enough to hear it.”

Humiliation suddenly turned to determined anger, and Bobby dashed the bottle against the floor. “They won’t laugh no more! I’ll show ’em!” He grabbed his gun belt, only for the revolver to fall out of the holster. He bent down to pick it up—

—and gunshots sounded down the street, followed by a bugle call of “Charge.”

Bobby looked up. “What’s that?”

“Rufus,” John replied, and he and Dean both hurried to the rifle rack.

Rufus blew “Charge” again.

Bobby sputtered questions as he tried to get his gun belt on and dropped his revolver again, but when John and Dean headed for the door, he cried, “Wait for me!”

“Why?” John shot back and ran out with Dean hard on his heels.

It wasn’t hard to find the scene of the crime; a crowd had gathered, at a respectful distance, and Bess Mills was bent over her husband, Garth, sobbing her eyes out while his adopted brother, Mark, kept pressure on the gunshot wound in Garth’s shoulder.

“John!” Rufus called from the nearest corner. “The men that done it took off this way!”

“Just a minute!” John called back and pushed through the crowd to meet Jody Mills in the middle, next to Garth.

“Winchester,” Mrs. Mills said by way of greeting. “Seems like you’re always around when one of my children gets hurt.”

John flinched but asked, “How is he?”

“He’s alive. Your boy Sam, he and my Charlie went for the doctor.”

“Who did it?”

Mrs. Mills turned to her third adopted son. “Jimmy, you were with Garth. What happened?”

“It was three of Roman’s men,” Jimmy replied, blue eyes sparking. “They came up behind us. One of ’em took my gun, and they started picking on Garth. When he turned around, one of ’em grabbed his arm, and the other one shot him. Then they ran away.”

“What did they look like?” John asked.

“One’s tall, one’s short, and one’s got a bad leg.”

“Let’s go find ’em,” Mrs. Mills ordered and turned to go.

“Just a minute,” Bobby interrupted, pushing through the crowd. “Y’all aren’t gonna go find anybody.”

Mrs. Mills looked at him in disgust. “A little late, aren’t you, Singer?”

“What’d you do,” asked Jimmy, “stop off for a drink?”

“All right, I’m late,” Bobby shot back. “I may be too late. But that’s no reason for the rest of you to get gunned down.”

Mrs. Mills’ look shifted to confusion. “What makes you say that?”

“Because you’re outclassed.”

“He’s right,” said Dean. “Roman’s had you beat the minute Nelse McLeod and his men rode into town.”

“Nelse McLeod?” Mark echoed.

John nodded. “You go up against him now, you’ll be playing right into Roman’s hands.”

“So what should we do?” Mrs. Mills challenged.

“Ask the sheriff,” John replied.

“You think I’m gonna wait on _him?_ ”

“Just give me an hour,” said Bobby. “You can wait that long to die.” He turned to go.

Mrs. Mills turned back to John. “You backing him up?”

“No,” Bobby stated. “He’s not.” And he pushed his way back through the crowd toward Rufus.

John sighed. “Let’s just say I’m on your side, and this is no job for civilians.” With that, he and Dean followed Bobby over to the corner where Rufus was waiting.

“They went down this street and turned left,” Rufus reported quietly as they walked up to him. “Too many for one man to chase. And they acted like they _wanted_ to be followed.”

Bobby nodded. “Well, I’ll go down this side.” Then he registered John behind him. “What are you doin’ here?”

John pointed. “Going down the other side.” And with Dean behind him, he suited the action to the word.

“Well, remember I didn’t ask you,” Bobby called after them.

Slowly and cautiously, the four hunters made their way down the street, warning each other of hazards with whistles. But Bobby really wasn’t in very good shape, and John kept just as wary an eye on him.

That probably explained why it took him several feet past an alley to realize that Dean wasn’t the only person behind him. He spun—and to his relief and annoyance, he saw that Sam had fallen in beside his brother.

“Where’d you come from?” he demanded in a whisper.

“Back there,” Sam replied, pointing over his shoulder to the alley. “I sent Charlie on ahead; she’s faster than me. I’ve been watching our men. A girl said—”

“A girl?!”

“Pa,” Dean warned.

“The men ran down that street,” Sam continued, pointing with a shruiken, “to the old church. She hadn’t seen them leave, and neither have I. If she’s telling the truth, they’re still there.”

“Won’t take much to find out,” John noted and got Bobby’s attention with a whistle, then motioned to the corner of the street that dead-ended in front of the church. Once all five of them had reached the same spot, John passed on Sam’s information.

Bobby nodded. “Let’s get closer.”

Together, they dashed for the next corner down that street—and someone in the bell tower took a shot at them.

“They’re still there, all right,” Dean stated.

“Got me in the bugle,” Rufus complained.

The assailants fired again, and Rufus fired several shots at the bells, making them ring... and making the shooters visibly duck out of the way. That let Bobby and the Winchesters move forward to a wagon that would give them cover and a better angle to return fire. Once they were in position and shooting, Rufus ran forward to join them, and everyone reloaded before Bobby and the Winchesters advanced again to the porch of the building nearest the church.

“All right, Dean,” John whispered. “Watch that roof and watch it good. Sam, get around back and watch the other door. Bobby, you—” He broke off, seeing that Bobby was slumped against the wall. “You all right?”

Bobby looked at him, breathing hard and visibly nauseated again.

“No, you’re not.”

But no sooner had John turned back to Dean to give him further instructions than Bobby pulled himself together and charged for the front door. John had to hurry to keep up with him, and Sam disappeared into the darkness to watch the back door. But one of the gunmen was already on his way down from the tower and managed to get out the back way despite Bobby shooting at him. John killed the other two, and he and Bobby took off after the one who escaped.

They found Sam at the corner where the alley came back to Main Street, hanging onto a post and gasping for breath. “I’m sorry, Pa,” he wheezed. “Dunno what happened.”

“Did you get him?” Bobby asked.

Sam nodded. “Didn’t... kill ’im, though. Got his side. Couldn’t aim.”

“Pamela,” John growled as Dean ran up. “Where’d he go?”

“Roman’s. Follow... follow the blood.”

John nodded. “Dean, get your brother back over to the jail.”

“But—”

“Go on, son,” Bobby confirmed. “And watch to see if they’ve got anybody outside at Roman’s. If so, you wave to us as you go inside.”

Dean sighed. “All right. C’mon, Sasquatch,” he ordered, pulling Sam’s left arm around his shoulders.

Sam murmured some insult as Dean hauled him away, but his breathing seemed to improve markedly as John watched them cross the street. And John’s suspicion was confirmed. Pamela hadn’t just taken Sam’s ability to shoot a gun; she’d taken his ability to kill anyone who was strictly human. John didn’t know if that made him feel better or worse about Sam’s deal.

* * *

“I dunno,” Sam said, helping himself to a cup of coffee now that he was completely recovered. “It could be that, or it could be that I can’t kill except in self-defense. Brady was trying to draw on me, after all.”

Dean sighed but didn’t take his eyes off Roman’s saloon, which he was watching through the window in the jail’s front door. There hadn’t been anyone on guard in front, so Pa and Rufus had split off—presumably to take the back door—while Bobby had gone in the front. “Either way,” he said, “it’s a hell of a handicap right now.”

“I still say it was worth it to avenge Jess.”

“But she’s only half avenged, Sammy. The other half’s sittin’ in that saloon over there. And Pa didn’t even ask me for the Colt this time.”

“I’ve got the knife.”

“Yeah, but Pa doesn’t. And even if he did, he’s certain the Colt’s the only weapon that can kill the thing that killed Ma.”

“What’s he figured out about it? Do you know?”

“Not enough. He just calls it Yellow-Eyes. Reckon it’s a demon, but—”

He was interrupted by a burst of gunfire from the saloon. There was a pause, then another shot.

Sam came up behind Dean. “Think we should go over there?”

Dean shook his head. “No. Until we figure this thing out, you’re stayin’ in here where it’s safe. And until Pa gets back, I’m stayin’ with you.”

“Dean, I told you, I don’t need a minder.”

“Like hell you don’t.”

The budding argument was cut off by a bark from Pa that carried just enough that they could hear it but not make out the word. A moment or two later, the saloon doors swung open, and the elder hunters came out guarding a tall, thin, dark-haired man in a grey suit who had to be Dick Roman. Roman looked sulky and had a black mark across one eyebrow, like someone—Bobby, probably—had punched him or hit him with something. Dean stepped out on the porch with his rifle to provide covering fire if needed. Bobby walked to Roman’s right, while Pa untied Roman’s horse from the hitching rail to serve as additional cover from the left, and Rufus brought up the rear. The procession made it across the street safely, but as Dean stepped aside to let them pass, he glanced to his left and saw a rifle barrel sticking out of a window at the livery stable catty-cornered from the jail.

Rufus noticed his reaction, and as they eased inside together and shut the door, he asked quietly, “What? What are you lookin’ at?”

“Somebody over in that livery stable, pointin’ a gun at y’all,” Dean replied just as quietly and went to the window to the left of the door.

Sam slipped up behind him again. “Too soon for it to be McLeod, at least if he’s still trying to pass for human.”

Dean nodded his agreement. “Think I’ll take a look.”

“I dunno, Dean.”

“I’ll be careful.” Dean shut the window and headed back to the door. “Sam, you stay here, help Pa.”

“Go around the back way,” Rufus recommended. “When you go out the door, turn to your right. If you’re not back in five minutes, we’ll come after you.”

Dean nodded his understanding and left, making a loop around the block and coming up behind the stable. Slipping inside was no problem; the would-be shooter was still focused on the jail, shifting in a way just shy of stamping a foot in frustration. There wasn’t enough light for Dean to make out much more than a silhouette, but the shooter’s build seemed to be small and slight, the dusty jacket and pants ill-fitting and the hat seated at an awkward angle, too far back. Overpowering this person wouldn’t be hard as long as Dean could create the right opening. So he edged forward to hide behind a buckboard, then found a tin cup and threw it to draw the shooter’s attention in the wrong direction. The clink and clatter of the cup landing and knocking over something glass made the shooter turn away from the window, and Dean pounced. The rifle went flying, and the shooter rolled over to fight back...

... and long auburn hair spilled out of the fallen hat as wide green eyes glared up at him above a snarl that shouldn’t have looked as cute as it did.

“Hey, you’re a girl,” he observed unnecessarily as he stopped himself from throwing a punch.

“Of course I’m a girl!” she shot back, still struggling to throw him off.

“Whoa, stop!” He pinned her and sat on her stomach. “You’ll lose your clothes if you keep that up!”

She huffed and went still. “All right. How’d you know I was in here?”

“Saw your gun barrel stickin’ out that window. Who were you after, anyway?”

“Roman. But they were so close around him, I couldn’t get a clear shot.” She paused. “You gonna keep sitting on my stomach?”

He shrugged. “I’m comfortable.”

She tried to hit him, but he pinned her again.

“What’s your name?” he asked then.

“Charlie.”

He blinked. “Charlie?!”

“ _Charlotte_ Mills.” She huffed. “Used to be Celeste Middleton, but... well, she died in the carriage accident with my parents. Ma says I can be whoever I want to be now. And I like being Charlie.” She raised her chin in defiance.

“Oh.” He digested that a moment, then got up and held out a hand to help her to her feet. “All right, c’mon.”

She let him help her up with bad grace and started brushing straw out of her hair.

“If you really are a Mills, I reckon you’ve got a right to want to shoot Roman.” He handed her her hat, then bent down to retrieve her rifle.

“And if you’re working with the sheriff, I reckon I ought to be thanking you for helping us. May I have my rifle back?”

“Not just yet. Not until we find out who you really are.”

“I told you who I am!”

“Lady, I can’t take anyone’s word for anything. C’mon, let’s go.”

Sulking, she let him take her elbow and lead her across the street, where he knocked on the jail door using the family’s coded knock. Sam opened the door and shut it again as soon as they were inside.

“Dean, what—” Pa began but broke off with a sigh when he saw who else was with Dean. “Hello, Charlie.”

“Mr. Winchester,” Charlie returned, sounding a little shy. “Sheriff.”

“Charlie,” Bobby acknowledged.

She turned to Dean and held out her hand, into which he placed her gun. “Can’t be too careful,” he noted, and she smiled.

“Just who were you aimin’ to shoot, Charlie?” Bobby asked as he and Pa came closer.

“Roman,” she replied.

“Didn’t the last time you shot a man teach you anything at all?”

Dean felt his eyebrows inching toward his hairline.

“It did,” Charlie stated flatly. “But there’s no mistake about Roman. We didn’t have much hope you were gonna get him, so Ma and the others are waiting for him at different places around the street. To be honest, we didn’t think you were good enough to get him.”

“Sober enough,” Bobby corrected.

She tilted her head to acknowledge it. “Well, we were wrong.”

“You’d better round up your family,” Pa said, “go back home and stay there ’til this thing’s over. You can also tell your ma we got the men that shot your brother. How is Garth?”

“Doc says he’s got a good chance.”

“I’m glad. Your ma’s lost too many children already.”

Charlie sniffled a little and nodded. “You gonna be able to hold Mr. Roman, Sheriff?”

“He’ll stand trial,” Bobby replied.

“Will he get what he deserves?”

“No telling. I’m just the sheriff, not the judge.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “May I talk to him for a minute?”

“Sure. Just let me have that gun.”

She smiled a little. “Never mind.” She started to leave but paused at the door and looked back. “I guess you’re doing what you think is right. Thanks, all of you.”

Rufus let her out.

“She _would_ have shot Roman,” Sam mused once the door was closed.

“She shot me,” Pa noted and chuckled at the way both brothers stared first at him, then at the door.

“Well, we got away with it,” Bobby announced, probably not for the first time, and plopped down in his desk chair.

Pa started toward the stove. “Want some more coffee?”

Bobby shook his head. “Nah. That last cup’s puttin’ me to sleep already.”

“Been through a lot tonight.”

Bobby snorted.

Rufus chuckled. “Go on an’ lie down, Bob. We’ll holler if we need you.”

“All right.” Bobby got up shakily to go in the back but paused at the door and turned back. “John, boys... I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know what got into me the last few months, but Roman and McLeod had me right where they wanted me. And I don’t even want to think about what might have been—I’m sick enough already.”

“Then don’t,” Sam said. “We’re here, and you’ll mend. That’s what matters.”

Bobby smiled. “And Rufus—”

“Save it,” Rufus interrupted, his gruff tone belied by the fondness in his eyes. “Just get your ugly mug to bed.”

“All right. Idjit.” And with an equally fond sparkle, Bobby went to bed.

So Sam and Dean settled in for a game of poker, using bullets for chips, and Pa and Rufus cleaned up the broken whiskey bottle and took turns guarding Roman, who fell asleep, and watching for McLeod and his men to leave the saloon. They did so, rather too peacefully, shortly before midnight, at which point Rufus said he was going to wake Bobby.

“Why?” Pa asked.

“’Fore Meg got her hooks into ’im, we used to make a patrol this time o’ night.”

“Let him sleep. Dean and I can take the patrol while you and Sam keep an eye on Roman.”

“If you’re gonna do that, you might as well wear these.” Rufus opened one of the drawers in the top of the roll-top desk, pulled out two tin stars, and handed them to Pa and Dean, who pinned them on. “Raise your right hands,” he instructed. “Do you solemnly swear to uphold law and order here in El Dorado and all the rest of it?”

“I do,” Pa and Dean chorused.

Rufus nodded once. “ _Mazel tov_. Now you’re deputies.”

Sam snorted.

“Lock the door after us, Sam,” Pa instructed, and he and Dean walked outside. “You take a look at Roman’s,” he ordered Dean then. “I’ll take this side.”

Dean nodded and crossed the street, very far from certain what he was supposed to do if anyone at Roman’s was a demon. The Colt had only eight bullets left, of which five were in the cylinder and three were in his belt—but if there were more than five demons, he probably wouldn’t have time to reload. However, he couldn’t smell any sulfur or discern any other standard signs of a demon’s presence when he glanced over the saloon doors, so he cautiously continued down the sidewalk to try to keep pace with Pa.

They’d barely gone a block when Dean heard something that sounded like the call of a screech owl, except that it was too high-pitched. He looked across the street at Pa, who motioned for him to stay put. And seconds later, four men on horseback came galloping down the street, whooping and shooting their guns in the air. Dean shot one with his usual sidearm; Pa shot another; and Bobby ran out into the street as they passed the jail and got shot in the leg but still managed to kill a third. Dean started to run across the street but tripped coming off the boardwalk and lost hold of his gun.

Then the fourth gunman wheeled around and charged back toward Dean.

“NO!” cried Sam from the jail door and flung an empty hand out toward the gunman.

The gunman pulled the trigger—and the gun exploded in his hand, killing him instantly.

Pa ran to get Bobby back inside, yelling for Rufus to go get the doctor. But Dean retrieved his gun, and he and Sam both ran wide-eyed toward each other.

“Sammy, what the hell did you do?” Dean demanded.

“I dunno,” Sam replied. “I swear I don’t know. Dean....” He started shaking.

Dean pulled him into a rough hug. “It’s okay. I’m okay. We’ll figure this out. C’mon.”

Sam didn’t even protest as Dean hustled him back inside the safety of the jail, with its iron bars and its wards. In fact, he was too rattled to notice when Dean swiped one of the knives he had hidden in his belt and handed it to Pa to cut Bobby’s pants away from the bullet wound, which Pa pronounced not as bad as it looked but still bad enough to need professional stitches and some goldenseal.[1] So Dean just got Sam some coffee and took him in the back to sit guard over Roman and not talk while Dr. Robert and his new assistant, a lady named Dr. Visyak, patched up Bobby’s leg and talked to Pa about the bullet in his back. Dean spoke up only once, when Pa tried to deny that the bullet was causing problems, but he tuned out whatever bad news Dr. Visyak gave Pa about his symptoms. Pa did at least promise to let her take it out once the mess with Roman and McLeod was taken care of.

The fact that Pa sounded like he wasn’t sure he wanted to live through either the fight with McLeod or the surgery worried Dean almost as much as whatever was going on with Sam.

By the time the doctors had left, however, and Bobby had sent Rufus to get enough supplies for them to hole up for the next four or five days until the marshal could come deal with Roman, Dean had decided what to say about Sam. And sure enough, Pa came back a moment later and sat down at the table with a sigh. Sam looked at him anxiously.

“Care to tell me what you did out there, Sam?” Pa asked, his voice deceptively even and quiet.

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know, sir.”

“He saved my life, Pa,” Dean said flatly. “That’s what he did.”

Pa held up a hand. “Let him answer, Dean. This have anything to do with what Pamela did?”

Sam shook his head again. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I just—it felt like something popped in my chest, and this... this surge of power just came out of nowhere. I don’t think I could do it again if I tried.”

Bobby rolled the desk chair over to the door. “Whoa, what—Pamela _Barnes?_ ”

Sam nodded. “Yes, sir. I went to her after a demon killed my fiancée. She gave me a knife that kills demons in exchange for my gun and my ability to use it.”

“What did she look like?”

Frowning in confusion, Sam shot a glance at Dean before replying, “Petite, blonde, blue eyes.”

“And where was this?”

“New Orleans.”

Bobby rolled closer, his face grave. “Sam... Pamela Barnes was about 5'7", dark brown hair, green eyes. She lived in Cincinnati. And she was murdered three years ago—by demons.”

The color drained from Sam’s face. “Wh-what about Missouri, then?”

Pa sighed. “Last I heard, she was in Canada. If the ‘Mademoiselle Pamela’ you met wasn’t really Pamela Barnes, there’s a good chance the ‘Missouri’ you met wasn’t Missouri Mosely, either.”

Sam buried his face in his hands with a quiet curse.

“Reckon that’s why they wanted him isolated, Pa?” Dean asked.

Pa nodded. “Could be.”

“What did they do to me?” Sam asked, voice quavering.

“I don’t know.” But something in the way Pa said that made Dean suspect that he could guess and wasn’t going to share, which probably meant it had something to do with Yellow-Eyes and why he’d killed Ma over Sammy’s cradle.

Before Dean could erupt at Pa, though, Bobby put a trembling hand on Sam’s back. “We’ll figure it out, Sam. Once this thing with Roman blows over and we get McLeod taken care of, we’ll figure it out. Don’t you worry.”

Sam sniffled and looked up, barely managing a wan smile. “Thanks, Bobby. I’m glad you’re back.”

Bobby chuckled a little. “Me, too, boy. Me, too.”

[1] Tincture of goldenseal was used as an antibiotic.


	4. Over the Mountains of the Moon

Rufus returned nearly an hour later with not only a load of supplies but also Ellen, who’d brought a basket of food and some soap, and Ash, who’d brought clean clothes for everyone and crutches for Bobby. Dean had, by that point, insisted that Sam come out in the office and try to lie down on the cot there, but Sam hadn’t managed to fall asleep yet. So while Ellen stayed in the back with the other elder hunters, presumably to check on Bobby and to join him and Rufus in fussing at Pa about keeping secrets, Ash came out front to check on Sam.

“Undertaker said that one fella looked like he’d been hit with a hand grenade,” Ash noted quietly.

Sam shuddered and explained what had happened. At Dean’s prompting, he also showed Ash the demon-killing knife and revealed a bit more about his nightmares than he’d told Pa. Ash hummed thoughtfully and started rooting around in the wardrobe until he found Rufus’ store of rare herbs.

“What’s that for?” Dean asked as Ash set several vials on the table under the gun rack.

“Medicine,” Ash answered. “Gonna find out what’s wrong with ’im. ’Fraid I can’t let you watch this part, though.”

“Ash—”

“I’m not doin’ anything to ’im yet, _amigo_. Relax, go check an’ see if there’s still anyone over ’crosst the street.”

So Dean sighed and went to the window to check on Roman’s saloon, which looked dark, while Ash hummed and muttered and tossed stuff around in the copper bowl.

“Okay,” Ash finally said, and as Dean came back from the window, Ash brought the bowl over to the cot. “Lie down, Sam.”

Sam lay down, and Ash held the bowl over Sam’s chest, lit a match, and dropped it into the bowl. Then he moved the bowl back and forth over the length of Sam’s body, watching the smoke intently and slowly starting to frown. Dean wasn’t sure if he was imagining the faint scent of sulfur and blood or whether it had something to do with the burning herbs.

“That don’t make sense,” Ash finally murmured. “That... don’t make _sense_.”

“What?” Sam and Dean both asked at the same time.

Ash chanted something under his breath and blew out the flames, studied what remained in the bowl for a moment, then headed to the stove to dispose of the waste. “Y’all were partly right. Real complicated spell, but the upshot is, it stops Sam from usin’ weapons other than that one knife.”

“Why?”

“T’force ’im to defend himself in other ways. Use his powers.”

Sam frowned and sat up. “I thought the power came from the spell.”

Ash shook his head. “Not the one the sham medium laid on you. Y’already had it. But how... that’s the part what don’t make no damn sense. I ain’t never got that answer from that spell before.”

“What answer?”

“Devil’s blood.”

Dean felt the blood drain from his face.

“The medium’s spell, that’s on your hand, your chest, an’ your eyes. But the other... it’s all over you, Sam, like....”

“Like it’s in my veins,” Sam whispered.

Ash nodded.

Sam let out a ragged sigh and started rubbing at his forehead.

“He’s not possessed,” Dean noted.

“I know that,” said Ash. “He’s human, all right. But like I said....”

Sam suddenly cried out and doubled over, clutching his head, his eyes screwed shut in pain. Dean immediately sat down beside him and rubbed his back until the pain passed, at which point Sam, breathing hard, collapsed against Dean’s shoulder.

“What is it?” Ash asked. “What happened?”

“Ni-... ni-... nightmare,” Sam wheezed. “Came back, longer. Ye-... Yellow-Eyes... McLeod, he... tied Pa up... took the Colt... said he had... almost... almost everything.”

Dean frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

Sam shook his head, but Ash looked worried. “The Colt. You mean _the_ Colt, the one Sam Colt hisself made, kills anything but God?”

“That’s the one. Got it right here.”

Ash ran a hand over his face.

“What? C’mon, man, spill.”

“You got it from Elkins?”

Dean nodded.

“He tell you where he got it?”

“No.”

“Tell you about his place in Wyoming?”

“Yeah, little town called Sunrise. Got burned out during the war.”

“For a reason.” Ash sighed and finally sat down on the floor, cross-legged. “’Bout twenty miles from Sunrise, there’s a cemetery. Middle o’ the cemetery, there’s a hellmouth. Sam Colt built a devil’s gate over it, plus a set o’ private rail lines an’ churches, makes a giant devil’s trap. But they say that gun’s the key to the gate.”

Dean swore.

Sam gulped down a breath. “If... if it’s iron....”

“Demons cain’t get in,” Ash continued. “But a human can.”

“Explains why he’s here, or at least part of it,” said Dean. “Capture Pa and me as hostages and make you take the gun up to Wyoming and open the gate.”

“No,” Sam breathed, shaking his head weakly. “No, not... not gonna... do his bidding. Not after... Ma ’n’ Jess.”

“Damn straight.” Dean would never admit how much this whole situation scared him, but at least Sam was responding the way Dean and Pa had raised him.

Ellen called for Ash just then, so after promising with a gesture and a nod that he’d keep mum, he left.

Sam finally had his breath back enough to sit up and let worried look meet worried look. “Dean....”

“Hey.” Dean moved his hand to Sam’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out.”

Sam sighed and slumped and nodded.

“C’mon, lie down, try to sleep. Been a hell of a day.”

Sam didn’t even protest as Dean pushed him over to lie down again, and he was asleep before Dean could get his boots off.

* * *

Garth woke early the next morning as the effects of the tiny dose of morphine he’d gotten the night before finally wore off. It took him a moment to remember what had happened and why he felt so sluggish, not to mention why he wasn’t at home with Bess, but moving just wrong reminded him in a hurry that there was a hole in his right shoulder. It didn’t hurt as much as it could have, though, so he decided to consider that a win.

There was a knock at the door a few moments later, and Mrs. Harvelle came in. “You all right, Garth? Heard you yelp.”

He nodded. “I’m okay, Miz Harvelle. Thank you.”

“Good. Need anything? I’ll be starting breakfast soon, be ready in about half an hour.”

“I’ll be all right ’til then, thanks.”

“All right. The sheriff got the men that shot you, and Dick Roman’s in jail.”

He heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness that’s over.”

“Oh, it’s not over yet, son. That’s why the family went home without you. I’ll wager someone will be back this morning to take you home, though.”

“Why ain’t it over?”

“Roman’s hired another gunman. Nelse McLeod. Already tried a diversion to get the sheriff once. It’s a cinch he’ll try again until either he gets Roman out or the marshal gets Roman to Austin.”

He stifled a curse. “Can the sheriff hold out? Lately, he’s been....”

She smiled. “Not anymore. And Singer’s got help.”

“From who?”

Her smile widened. “John Winchester.” And chuckling at his astonished stare, she left.

His mind was still whirling when Mrs. Harvelle returned with breakfast and when Dr. Visyak came to check him over and give him another dose of goldenseal to ward off infection. She offered him more morphine, but he refused. His gun arm might be out of commission, but he felt sure Ma needed him to have his head clear, at least.

Not even a minute after Dr. Visyak left, however, there was another knock at the door and Jimmy came in, his dark curls sticking up every which way and dark circles under his worried blue eyes. “Garth?”

Garth smiled broadly at him. “Hey, brother.”

Jimmy’s face brightened considerably as he came over to the bed. “Doc Visyak says you’re doing better.”

“She would know,” Garth joked.

“You sleep all right?”

“Like the dead. Didn’t even hear the commotion Miz Harvelle says happened later.”

“It was bad,” Jimmy reported gravely. “Sheriff Singer got nicked in the leg, I hear.”

“Who’s this McLeod fella?”

“Fastest gun south of the Nueces, they say. Supposed to be even worse than Winchester.” Jimmy paused. “’Course... Winchester and his sons are kind of on our side now, so....”

Garth frowned. “His sons?”

Jimmy nodded. “They’re about our age, maybe between you and Charlie. And you know what’s wild? Mark thinks they’re kin to him somehow, on their ma’s side.”

“ _Huh_.”

“Anyway, they’re all over at the jail, guarding Roman. And Ma sent Charlie and me to come get you, if you’re well enough to ride in the wagon.”

Garth sat up with a hiss. “Yeah, I’ll make it. Might could ride Fizzles, but the wagon’s got better suspension.”

Jimmy chuckled and went to get Garth’s shirt and jacket. “Charlie’s still talking with Doc Visyak, I guess. You think you’ll need help getting your shirt on?”

Garth considered. “Probably.”

So Jimmy gently eased the shirt over Garth’s wounded shoulder and helped him pull on his boots, and together they went down to say goodbye to Mrs. Harvelle and collect Charlie. But Charlie was frowning and chewing on her lip, and seeing Garth made her smile for only a moment.

“What’s wrong?” Garth asked her.

She shook her head. “Not here.”

So Garth let Jimmy get him settled on the pile of blankets and pillows in the back of the buckboard and tie Fizzles’ reins to his own saddle horn, and Charlie drove out of town at a speed that might have been somewhat faster than strictly necessary.

“What is eatin’ you, sister?” Garth asked once they were past the edge of town.

She sighed. “Something Doc Visyak said. It’s—I’m... I’m puzzling over it.”

“How so?”

She hesitated before asking, “So say I want to take a mineral, like maybe salt or something, and make a solid shotgun slug out of it. How would I do that?”

Garth and Jimmy, who was riding alongside the wagon, looked at each other. And suddenly Garth realized just why he needed his head clear right now.

* * *

At the jail, the day passed slowly and quietly. Sam rested, badly due to the nightmares both of Dean and Pa’s capture and of Jess’ death that plagued him repeatedly. Bobby, despite the shakes, got himself bathed and dressed and let either Rufus or Pa (they were both helping him) trim his beard. One or all of them had evidently threatened Roman with grievous bodily harm if he acted up, because he didn’t talk or try anything all day. And everyone else took turns resting and standing guard.

Sometime after dark, though—Sam wasn’t sure how long—someone knocked on the door and shoved a note underneath, through the salt line. Dean covered Pa with the Colt while Pa picked it up, fixed the salt, and read the note.

“What’s it say?” Bobby asked at the same time Rufus asked, “Who’s it from?”

“Our old friend Anonymous,” Pa replied. “Says there’s a bunch of men hanging around the Roadhouse, some Roman’s, some McLeod’s. Sender wants us to watch out because they may be planning something.” He flipped the paper over, looked at the back, then flipped it over again. “Ellen’s hand, Ellen’s paper, but it doesn’t have the security code we set last night.”

Bobby sighed. “Guess you and Dean had better go down there, John.”

“No!” Sam cried. “No, Pa, you can’t!”

Pa frowned. “Sam, Ellen’s in danger.”

“So are you!”

“What are you talking about?”

“His nightmare,” Dean chimed in. “He said it happens at the Roadhouse. McLeod wants the Colt and a hostage or two. And if you go down with that bullet in your back....”

Pa sighed. “We can’t leave Ellen alone.”

Sam stood up. “We won’t. I’ll go.”

“Sam—”

“Pa, I’ve got the knife, and I know what he’s after. He won’t find it so easy to use me.”

Pa ran a hand over his mouth.

“I’ll go with ’im, John,” Rufus offered. “You an’ Dean stay put here.”

Pa sighed again, more heavily. “All right. But be careful, both of you.”

Sam and Rufus both nodded, and Rufus got a badge for Sam and a rifle for himself. Then they walked out the front door and hadn’t gone very far at all before someone took a shot at them and ran into the Roadhouse as Rufus fired back. The two hunters gave chase, and at Rufus’ direction, Sam threw a chair through the barroom window as an attention-getter before the pair of them ran inside.

“A man came in here,” Rufus said to demand information, and a knot formed in Sam’s stomach.

It tightened as a wide-eyed Ash replied, “Out the back way!”

Rufus met Ash’s eyes, nodded once, and started toward the back door. Sam followed, trying not to swear. And there they were, Roy and Walt, just like in his dream, urging Rufus to go out the back door.

Sam had just opened his mouth to warn Rufus when Rufus spun and aimed his rifle at Roy. “You first.”

Roy’s eyes went wide, and he started backing toward the stairs. “No, no, please—”

“Not that way.” Rufus shot Roy through the wrist, throwing him off balance.

Roy ran into the wall, clutching his wrist. “There’s somebody out there!” he yelped.

“I know!” And Rufus fired another shot just past Roy’s ear.

In a panic, Roy lunged for the door, wrenched it open, and ran out, calling, “Don’t shoot, it’s Roy!”

But the ambush party shot him anyway, several times over. They did the same to Walt a moment later when Rufus herded him out the door.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a Dutch oven came flying through the air and slammed into the side of Rufus’ head, knocking him out. Sam ran to help him but found himself flying into a wall, where some invisible force immobilized him.

And McLeod came out of one of the back rooms, eyes a sickly yellow from corner to corner and an evil smile on his face. “Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite boy. Little Sammy Winchester.”

Sam’s gut twisted all the more.

* * *

Not five minutes after Sam and Rufus left, the validity of Sam’s dream-vision became apparent. Guns were still firing down the street when John, pacing in his anxiety, suddenly got hit by the worst bullet spell he’d had yet, and the blinding pain and muscle spasms didn’t let up for what felt like an eternity but was probably a couple of minutes. By the time he was able to hear and see normally again—or as normally as he could with one eye stuck shut and one ear not registering anything—it felt like Dean had gotten him onto the cot and taken his gun belt and boots, and the world outside was quiet. Too quiet.

“Can you feel that, Pa?” Dean asked, and it took John a moment to find the boy because he was standing at the foot of the cot, bent over a little.

“Feel what?” John ground out.

Dean’s shoulders moved. “That.”

“Don’ feel anythin’.”

“I’m touching the sole of your right foot.” Dean’s shoulders moved again.

John sighed. “Nothin’.”

Dean swore.

“Don’... don’ worry... ’bout me, son.” John realized belatedly that only the left side of his face was moving when he talked. “Where’s Sam?”

“They’re not back yet.”

John let his other eye close and decided to focus on catching his breath. By the time he’d succeeded, his face and ears were back to normal, and he could move his head again. But a full hour passed without the return of sensation in the rest of his right side—or of Sam or Rufus.

Bobby was trying to decide whether to send Dean after them when there was a knock on the back door. Dean ran to open it and came back with Rufus, Ellen, and Ash.

“McLeod’s got Sam,” Ellen announced as they entered the office. “Disappeared with him somewhere, so God alone knows what they’re doing to him.”

“How the hell did he get in?” Bobby asked.

Ash shook his head. “Did somethin’ to the building, broke all the devil’s traps.”

“Why the hell didn’t Sam throw the knife?” Dean demanded.

“Couldn’t. Demon never gave ’im the chance. And I hate to say it, but I don’t think he just wanted a hostage. Didn’t do more to Rufus than knock ’im out, didn’t come after ’im when we got ’im into Mama Ellen’s room. And he knew Sam’s name—and said Sam was his favorite.”

John swore. There’d always been one tiny corner of his mind that held onto a shred of hope that the rumors about Sam were wrong. Now it was gone.

Bobby sighed. “Well, it’s not too good, is it?”

“Sure ain’t,” Rufus replied, rubbing his head.

Roman chuckled loudly enough that even John could hear him.

“You shut your trap, Roman,” Dean snarled. “If anything happens to my brother—”

He was interrupted by someone shooting at the jail’s front door.

“BACK!” Bobby ordered, drawing his gun.

But only Ash scurried out of sight of the door. Dean dove behind the leather-top desk and aimed his handgun at the door, while Ellen and Rufus grabbed rifles and headed back to keep Roman covered. Then the lock and latch finally gave way, and the door swung open—and Sam, gagged and bound hand and foot, fell into the room.

“Sheriff?” McLeod called. “Can you hear me? It’s Nelse McLeod.”

“I hear you,” Bobby called back.

“We haven’t hurt Sam—yet. But we have five guns on him from across the street, so don’t try to move him.”

“We’ve got enough guns on your boss to get the job done.”

“I expected that.”

“All right, McLeod, what’s your deal?”

“You send out Roman alive, and you get your boy.”

“MM!” burst from Sam. “Mm mm mm!”

“Bob,” Rufus warned, “we let Roman go, McLeod can do whatever he wants. What chance you got then?”

But John didn’t know what the right choice was. On the one hand, Rufus had a point, and the Millses had no chance at all against McLeod if he went after them again. Plus, there was that little news item Ash had brought about Sam. But still... John couldn’t take his eyes off his baby boy, muscles straining against whatever force was keeping him pinned to the floor, valiantly trying to resist. And John had understood Sam’s cry even if Bobby hadn’t: _No! Don’t do it!_

Sam was willing to die to save a family he’d barely met. John didn’t know if he was willing to let Sam do that.

But the choice wasn’t his to make. It was Bobby’s. And Bobby sighed and said, “Let him out, Rufus.”

“Bob—” Rufus objected.

“I said let him out.”

Sam let out a muffled sob.

Rufus sighed, and a moment later John heard the rattle of keys and the creak of the cell door. Smirking triumphantly, Roman walked out, ignoring the guns the hunters kept trained on him and kicking Sam’s feet out of the way as he passed and closed the door behind him. Then Dean hauled Sam over to the desk chair while Rufus used a rifle box to brace the door shut. Ash and Ellen helped Dean get Sam untied.

But Sam was crying bitterly, and his first words after the gag came off were, “You shoulda let him kill me.”

Bobby looked at him sadly. “I couldn’t do that, Sam. I’m sorry.”

“Why would you sell out your friends for a freak like me?”

“Because you’re family, idjit.”

Sam sobbed loudly again.

Dean handed him a handkerchief. “You all right, Sammy?”

“No,” Sam said. “I haven’t been all right since I was six months old.”

John frowned in alarm and tried to sit up but couldn’t, although his right leg did twitch.

“Hey,” Dean pressed, brushing Sam’s hair back from his forehead. “What’d he do to you?”

Sam shook his head. “I—I can’t. There aren’t words.”

“In the jail,” McLeod’s mocking voice called. “John, I’m sorry it had to end like this. I’ll always wonder which of us was best.”

Hot rage swept over John, but his body refused to respond with action.

“All right, we need to get out of here, fall back to my ranch,” said Bobby. “Ash, go get Doc Visyak, meet us out at my place. Ellen, you and Rufus get your wagon for John. And Dean, take Sam in the back, check him over.”

Dean nodded and pulled Sam to his feet, and everyone else got to work while Bobby holstered his gun and pulled a chair up beside John’s cot.

“Some bargain,” John said quietly as Bobby sat down.

“Go ahead, John,” Bobby shot back at the same volume. “Tell me how you’d have done it different.”

John sighed. “You’re the one who’ll have to face Mrs. Mills.”

“I’d rather face her than you.”

“Even laid up like this?”

“You still got one good hand.”

John snorted.

“Doin’ any better?”

John tried to move his right foot and succeeded. “Little.”

“You know... if you hadn’t listened to Sam... good chance that woulda been you up against that door.”

John sighed again. “I know.”

“Would have put me in the same spot.”

“And you’d have done the same?”

“Family don’t end with blood, idjit. But even the days I could kill you with my bare hands, I wouldn’t, if only for the boys’ sake. They need you.”

John shook his head. “Some father I am. This thing with Sam and Yellow-Eyes....”

“Sam was willin’ to die for Jody Mills. Whatever the hell else we find out about Yellow-Eyes, hold onto that. Sam’s a grown man in a heap o’ trouble—but he’s still your boy, and he’s still good.”

John ran his left hand over his face. “Thanks, Singer.”

Bobby patted his shoulder, and together they settled in to wait for the others to be ready to leave.

Then something occurred to John suddenly. “Bob? Did you get a look at Roman’s face when he left?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Did he still have a mark from where you slammed your rifle into his face last night?”

Bobby thought for a moment. “He should have, but... I don’t remember.”

John felt his stomach churn as they looked at each other. The last thing they needed was for Roman to turn out to be non-human, too... especially if they couldn’t work out quickly what he was.


	5. Ride, Boldly Ride

The ride out to Bobby’s ranch was far too uneventful, which left Rufus on edge. But Bobby and John were in no fit state to object to McLeod’s seeming mercy; Sam was too torn up over whatever the demon had done to him in that hour he was missing to even notice; and Dean and Ellen were too busy worrying about everyone else. So was Ash when he arrived a few minutes later with Dr. Visyak. Rufus therefore took it upon himself to stand watch at the living room window.

For her part, the good doctor quickly checked Rufus’ head and Bobby’s leg and declared herself satisfied with the state of both. She offered to look at Sam next, but he declined.

“Are you sure?” she pressed. “You act like you’ve just come from the front.”

Sam shook his head. “It’s not the kind of thing I need a doctor for. Thanks, though. Just... Pa’s the one who needs your help.”

John had regained the use of his leg by this point, but the entire right side of his torso was still numb, and his right arm was lifeless. Dr. Visyak hummed thoughtfully as she tested him.

“What’s the verdict, Ellie?” Bobby asked when she finished.

Dr. Visyak shook her head. “It’s too soon to tell, but we may have waited too long to get that bullet out. The surest cure is to operate, but even then—”

“No,” John interrupted. “Not yet. Even like this, there’s got to be some good I can still do. And it may be better in the morning. You operate, and I’ll be out of commission altogether.”

“All right, fine. I’ll come back in the morning and check on you. For now, let me fix you a sling.”

“We can do that,” said Ellen. “You’d better get back to town before McLeod decides to come after us here.”

“They haven’t gotten around to shooting women yet,” Dr. Visyak noted but took her leave anyway.

Once she was gone, John turned to Sam. “Sam, if your problem’s with a lady doctor—”

“No!” Sam yelped, blushing. “It’s—nothing like that, no. McLeod told the truth. They didn’t... they didn’t _hurt_ me. He just....” He scrubbed a hand over his face, below his nose. “It had to do with Ma’s death. He... he showed me what he did to me that night. And he killed Ma because she interrupted him.”

Bobby looked at him narrowly. “He did it again tonight, didn’t he? And then he tested you.”

Sam ducked his head, and his shoulders slumped.

“Sam, that’s not your fault.”

“He’s right,” Ellen agreed. “Wouldn’t have been your fault if he’d hurt you, either.”

Sam huffed. “I need some coffee.” He stalked into the kitchen, Dean and Ash hard on his heels. He tried to slam the door behind him, but Dean caught it, and Ash closed it once all three of them were through.

John sighed and started to get up. He had no idea what he’d say to Sam, but he needed to say something.

But Ellen said, “John,” and he looked down to see her hand on his right shoulder. “Let him be for right now. I’ll get you that sling.”

He sighed again. “Ellen....”

“Leave it be, Leatherneck,” said Rufus. “You may be worried about losin’ him, but you go off half-cocked, you’ll lose him for sure.”

“He’s hurting.”

“And you have the potential to hurt him more,” Bobby argued. “’Til you get your head all the way around the fact that he’s a victim _and_ your son, and not whatever the hell you think you’ve heard about ’im, you could be doin’ more harm than good.”

And the hell of it was, John knew they were right. Leaving aside the fact that he was of at least two minds about Sam, knowing he was devil-touched but seeing how miserable the knowledge made the boy... John always had had a knack for saying exactly the wrong thing to Sam when emotions were high. Besides, what solace could he give right now beyond _Don’t worry, I’m not planning to kill you_?

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t realize Ellen had moved until she picked his arm up off his lap and eased a piece of fabric around it. Then he didn’t think much at all as he watched her work where he couldn’t feel and bent his head forward to let her tie the sling around his neck. He could feel her straighten the folds more comfortably around his neck and smooth the length over his chest, though... it made him shiver a little.

She noticed, he could tell. But all she did was squeeze his good shoulder before straightening and turning away from him. “You’d better not be plannin’ on starin’ out that window all night, Rufus Turner. Not with that concussion you’ve got.”

“Somebody has to,” Rufus returned.

“Well, I’m somebody. You rest.”

They bickered a while longer until the boys came back in, at which point Bobby declared lights out and he and Rufus escorted the other guests to the two small spare bedrooms while Ellen took over the watch. Then Rufus started to go back to the living room instead of his own bedroom, which prompted another bickering match with Bobby. Ash chuckled and Dean shook his head, and they and Sam started into one guest room.

“Sam,” John said quietly.

Sam paused and turned back to him, looking scared and worried.

John put his left hand on Sam’s shoulder, not at all sure what to say—to praise him for revealing his visions, assure him that he wasn’t at fault for what Yellow-Eyes did, or just what. What finally came out, though, was, “We’ll figure it out.”

Sam smiled a little. “Thanks, Pa.”

* * *

By the time Dr. Visyak returned the next morning, John had regained the feeling in his side but not his arm. She poked and prodded and offered again to operate, and he declined again. Even though this spell was definitely lasting far longer than any he’d had before, he was improving slowly, and he knew there’d be more trouble coming.

It came before he was ready. His arm was still dead as he and the others ate supper around sundown, but Rufus, who’d taken up his sentry position again, suddenly announced that Jimmy and Charlie were coming. Bobby sent Dean to make sure the Mills kids hadn’t been followed, and everyone else got up to go into the living room.

Jimmy greeted Rufus and John as he and Charlie walked in, rifles in hand but lowered. Then he turned to Bobby. “We need to talk to you, Sheriff.”

“What’s wrong, Jimmy?” Bobby asked.

“Lots of things,” said Charlie.

“The cattle had to be watered today,” Jimmy explained. “Ma sent Mark and a Mexican boy—and Roman’s men grabbed Mark. They sent Carlos back with a message that they’d let Mark go if Ma turns her water rights over to Roman.”

“And she’s going to,” Bobby surmised.

“What choice does she have?”

“Sheriff, you _know_ they’re not gonna give Mark back,” Charlie chimed in.

Bobby sighed. “Roman won’t want to leave any witnesses who can testify as to how he got the deed to that water. Certainly not Mark or your ma.”

“You gotta do something.”

Dean slipped in the front door at that point. “Nobody trailin’ ’em that I can see.”

Bobby looked at Jimmy. “When is your ma supposed to meet Roman?”

“Tonight,” Jimmy replied. “Eight o’clock, his saloon. They said they’d kill Mark if anyone tried anything.”

Charlie snorted. “That’s what _you_ said about Roman, isn’t it, Sheriff? And then you didn’t.”

Sam huffed and shook his head.

“Well, what are you gonna do now?”

“They’ve got McLeod and a bunch of gunhands,” Bobby noted, “and they’ve got your brother. Look around you. We’ve got two cripples, three green kids—”

“Green?!” Sam and Dean objected.

“—one mama bear, and one noisy old coot with a concussion.”

Rufus said something rude in Yiddish.

Bobby ignored him. “How do _I_ know what I’m gonna do?”

Charlie sighed and looked up at John. “I guess this whole thing’s my fault. If I hadn’t shot you....”

John held up his left hand. “This is bigger than you, Charlie. Bigger than you know. Besides, I wasn’t the one in danger. Sam saw to that.”

Sam ducked his head.

“Go back and tell your ma that it’s up to her whether she gives up or not, but we’ll do what we can to get Mark out alive.”

Charlie nodded, and she and Jimmy turned to go. On their way out the door, though, Charlie caught Dean’s arm and whispered something to him, and he went outside with them.

“What _are_ we gonna do?” Rufus asked.

Bobby threw up the hand that wasn’t holding his crutch. “I dunno. Even if we exorcise McLeod, we’d still have Roman and his men to get past. I just... I dunno.”

John had a sudden idea, though, and pulled Bobby’s revolver out of its holster. He slid the gun into the sling, above his arm, and tried drawing it from there a few times. “Have to try it with the real thing,” he murmured, putting the gun back in the sling, then turned to Sam. “Can you see it from there?”

“No, sir,” Sam replied. “I can’t—but I don’t know about Yellow-Eyes.”

“Hex bag should do for that, if there’s time,” said Rufus.

Bobby frowned. “That takes care of McLeod, but what about Roman?”

John looked around and spied Bobby’s rifle, which he’d had fitted with a bigger trigger guard/lever that would allow him to eject the spent cartridge and bring up the next round by spinning the gun on his finger. John had one just like it, though his was back at the jail. The rifle wasn’t loaded—Sam had taken out his insecurities by cleaning all the weapons in the house that afternoon but hadn’t finished reloading them all before supper—so John picked it up in his left hand, braced the barrel on his right hand, and tried dry-firing and working the rifle’s action a few times. It was awkward, but he managed it.

“Can you hit anything that way?”

“If I can get close enough.” John handed the rifle to Sam. “Load it, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” Sam replied and went to do so.

Dean came back inside at that point. “We got a plan yet?”

“Workin’ on one,” Rufus replied.

Bobby raised an eyebrow. “How will you get close enough?”

“Ride up to Roman’s in a wagon,” John answered. “You’ve got a wagon, right?”

“Yeah, great big one. Taller’n Ellen’s buckboard, anyway—higher sides, better defense.”

Now it was Ellen’s turn to frown. “Are you crazy?”

“It’s crazy enough to work,” Ash remarked.

“I got away with it,” Bobby added. “He can.”

John nodded and returned Bobby’s revolver to its holster. “They won’t think I’m any good. Dean, let me borrow that Colt.”

With a look of deep misgiving, Dean pulled the Colt out of its holster and handed it to John, who slid it into the sling.

“Could you see that from below?”

Dean crouched down, looked up, and shook his head. “No, sir.”

John nodded once and turned to Bobby. “Last time you took the front door, and I took the back. This time, let’s switch. We can leave Sam here—”

Dean stood up. “Actually, Pa, you might need cover from the jail. Bobby can wait there, stay off his leg. Rufus and Sam and I can take the back door.”

John frowned. “Dean....”

Sam snapped the rifle shut with perhaps a touch more force than necessary. “I’m not sitting this out, Pa. Get used to it.”

“We’d better get going before we think about it too much,” Rufus said to forestall an argument. “C’mon, boys. Let’s get those wagons hitched up.”

Sam handed the rifle to John, and he, Dean, and Ash left with Rufus.

“Get there just before 8, you think?” Bobby asked.

John drew in a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah.”

“I’ll hash things out with the boys on our way into town, don’t worry. If we get in the back door and get Mark’s captors before you start shootin’, I’ll have Rufus blow on his horn.”

“And if they start shooting first?”

“Well, in that case, partner, you’re on your own.” With that, Bobby grabbed his hat and limped outside.

John sighed.

“I’ll ride with you,” Ellen told him.

“Ellen—”

“That wasn’t a question.”

“All right, but I’m dropping you off at the Roadhouse. If the Millses get to town early, I’ll need you to head ’em off.”

She nodded once. “Fair enough.”

Just then one of the wagons pulled up out front, so they went outside together just as the other pulled around beside it. Ash was driving Ellen’s buckboard, which was hitched to Sam’s horse and one of Bobby’s, but Sam had Cochise and Impala hitched to something that looked more like a freight wagon. He didn’t say anything to John when he jumped down, just gave Ellen a hand up to the seat, gave John a slight boost to get him past the wheel, and climbed into the back of the buckboard. Dean and Rufus climbed in after him while Ash slid over and relinquished the reins to Bobby. Then John hid the rifle behind the seat and started his wagon toward town, and Bobby followed.

Ellen was silent for most of the drive, keeping her eyes on the darkening countryside and waving to Bobby and the boys as the buckboard peeled off to go into town from a different angle. About the time the edge of town became visible, though, she sighed.

John figured that was as good an opening as any. “I want a hunter’s funeral, Ellen.”

“Keep talkin’ that way, and you’ll get one.”

He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She looked him in the eye. “You’ve been waiting for this showdown for twenty-two years. You’ll have your revenge and save Jody Mills into the bargain.”

“So?”

“So you’ve been talking like you don’t care about what comes after. Like this is all that’s been keepin’ you alive all these years, and now that it’s almost over, you don’t plan to live to see what’s on the other side.”

“Ellen—”

“Dammit, John, if your boys don’t give you enough to live for, what hope is there for me?!”

John’s mouth fell open. But before he could recover enough to reply, they passed the edge of town, and he needed to keep his attention on the road. So he pretended he didn’t hear her sniffle or swipe a tear off her cheek.

Once he’d stopped the wagon in front of the Roadhouse, though, he caressed her cheek with his left hand. “I can’t make any promises,” he told her quietly. “I don’t want to make you a widow twice. Just... can you ever forgive me?”

“For Bill? Truth is... I think I forgave you a long time ago.”

But whatever either of them would have said next was interrupted by the jingle of harnesses and the pounding of hoofbeats. The Millses were early.

“Stay alive, John,” Ellen ordered as she slipped down from the wagon and ran to head them off.

He didn’t have time to call anything after her. All he could do was to haul a deep breath into his suddenly tight chest and drive on to Roman’s saloon before Mrs. Mills could decide not to wait on him.

* * *

“Dean, are you _sure?_ ” Bobby asked for the fifth time as Ash unlocked the back door of the jail.

“Positive,” Dean replied. “You and Ash watch for any of Roman’s men that might try to get behind Pa. We’ll take care of the rest.”

Rufus turned to Sam. “Lemme have your throwin’ stars.”

Sam reached back and did something to the back of his belt before cautiously handing Rufus a handful of metal. “Careful with those.”

“I been to Japan, boy. I know how to use ’em.”

That was a story Dean was going to have to hear—some other time. “We’ll be _fine_ , Bobby. You just keep an eye on Pa.”

Bobby sighed. “All right. See y’all after a while.”

Dean, Sam, and Rufus hurried quietly toward the back of Roman’s saloon but stopped short when they got close enough to see a sentry at the back door. Lamplight from the house behind the saloon fell on the sentry’s face—and his eyes were coal black from corner to corner.

Dean cursed under his breath. “Sammy—”

But suddenly there was a burst of yellow-orange light from the sentry’s head, and he fell dead. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Dean looked over at Sam to see him trying to wipe away a trickle of blood from his nose.

“Can we just go?” Sam asked quietly, unable to keep a tremor out of his voice.

“Sammy, how....”

“You don’t want to know. You really, really don’t want to know.”

Rufus gave Sam’s shoulder a rough squeeze and started toward the door, leaving the brothers to follow him. Together they slipped into the storeroom in the back of the bar, which gave them a clear view of Mark, tied up in the middle of the room where he’d be easy to see from the street if someone held the doors open. There was one gunman sitting close to him as a guard, but Roman and McLeod and most of their men were at the bar, celebrating their victory in advance.

Then they heard the creak and clatter of Pa’s wagon approaching, and Roman’s foreman Edgar came in the front door to tell McLeod that Pa was coming. McLeod ordered a couple of his men to stay with Mark, and he and Roman walked outside, followed by two other gunmen, while the rest of the men gathered around the windows and doorway.

At about that point, Mark looked toward the storeroom, and his eyes went wide when he caught sight of Dean. Dean motioned for silence—only slightly necessary, since Mark was gagged—and flashed Mark a thumbs-up, which Mark acknowledged with the barest of nods.

And then Pa pulled up outside, which meant it was showtime.

* * *

John pulled the wagon to a halt in front of Roman and McLeod. Roman’s men took up positions on either side of the pair, hands on their belts in implicit threat, but John really didn’t care.

“Wasn’t expecting you, Mr. Winchester,” said Roman.

But John ignored him. “Hello, Azazel.”

Roman started to say something, but McLeod raised a hand to cut him off and let his eyes turn. “My show, Roman. Howdy, John. Been a long time.”

Roman’s men started to look a little nervous.

“There’s a little question unanswered between us,” John stated.

“Which of us is best,” McLeod replied.

“That’s right.”

“I don’t think we’ll find out the answer.”

“No?”

“No. Your gun arm’s no good.”

John resisted the urge to look down at his sling—he didn’t dare draw attention to it now. “Just give me time to get down off this wagon, and we’ll see.”

“Why should I?”

“Call it professional courtesy.”

Roman frowned. “Don’t listen to him. Why should you give him any time?”

McLeod chuckled. “Curiosity, Roman. My better judgment tells me—”

He was cut off by a bugle blast, and both he and Roman turned to see what had happened, which gave John just enough time to whip out the Colt before McLeod could turn back around and draw. John put a bullet right between those yellow eyes, and burning from within, Azazel fell and died, taking Nelse McLeod with him. But John didn’t have time to celebrate yet. He shoved the smoking Colt back into his sling, grabbed the rifle, fired at one of the henchmen, and leapt off the wagon as Cochise and Impala took their cue and sped away. By the time the wagon was out of the way, most of the gunmen had either scattered or been shot by Bobby, Rufus, or Dean, which left John with a clear shot at Roman. He took that shot three times as he stood up...

... but the wounds bled black, and Roman barely seemed to feel them. Rather, with a smirk, he grabbed one of McLeod’s guns and fired at John, and John screamed and fell as the bullet tore into his right hip and shattered the bone. When he looked up again, Roman was striding toward him, chuckling.

“Hunters,” Roman said contemptuously. “Think you know everything, don’t you, Winchester? Well, you can’t stop me—but I’m sure as hell going to stop you.” He aimed the revolver straight at John’s heart and thumbed back the hammer.

Then John heard the report of a shotgun from behind him somewhere, and Roman’s eyes went wide in shock as two twelve-gauge holes appeared straight over his heart, burning like silver in a shifter or were. He staggered back against a post as Charlie ran up beside John, shotgun still at the ready. But she didn’t need it, because every heartbeat seemed to increase Roman’s agony. After a few moments more, his back arched as his head fell back... and his mouth grew to a gaping, sharp-toothed maw that obscured the rest of his face, a long, forked black tongue flailing as he screamed. Charlie gasped in horror and nearly dropped her gun.

And suddenly Jimmy appeared beside Roman with a silver sword in his hand, which he used to chop off that monstrous head before... disappearing again.

Rufus and the boys ran out of the saloon, with Mark right behind them, at the same time Bobby and Ash arrived from the jail. “What the hell—” Dean began.

But he was cut off by Jimmy’s reappearance. Both the sword and the head were gone, but John barely had time to register that before Jimmy knelt beside him and touched his forehead. Some kind of power surged through John, and when it faded... so did the pain in his hip and the numbness in his arm. Jimmy helped John to his feet, and when he looked back, John could see two bullets on the ground, one in the pool of blood that had come from his hip, the other where the middle of his back had lain.

“Fear not,” Jimmy said, his voice about an octave lower than usual, as John stared at him. “The Leviathan’s head can no longer return to its body. Dick Roman is dead.”

Charlie was shaking. “Jimmy, what the hell—”

Jimmy smiled. “Oh, no. Quite the opposite. And I’m not Jimmy at present.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Castiel. I’m an angel of the Lord.” And the lanterns suddenly flared brightly enough to show the shadow of wings stretching out from Jimmy’s back.

Everyone was dumbstruck for a moment before Charlie found her voice again. “Um. Wh-ho-how do you know....”

“I threw the head into Mauna Loa—that’s a volcano. Even if the head should survive that and find its way back here, the solid borax slugs Dr. Visyak directed you to make will continue to poison the body until it is completely destroyed.”

“Dr. Visyak?” Bobby echoed.

Jimmy—er, Castiel nodded. “She was an old enemy of Roman’s.”

John finally found his voice, sort of. “Why?” was all that came out.

Castiel tilted Jimmy’s head and looked at John with a slight confused frown and an unblinking stare that was unsettling coming from Jimmy’s intensely blue eyes. “Why what?”

“Why... this? Why help? Why _now?_ ”

Castiel’s face cleared. “My family has done yours a great disservice, John Winchester.”

John shook his head. “Mrs. Mills—”

“That’s Jimmy’s family, though he and Charlie also feel they owed you. Mine has wronged you more gravely. Certain of my brothers were complicit in Azazel’s plans for your sons, especially for Sam. They would not allow me to save Mary or Jess. But they could not stop me from saving you.” Before John could come up with a response to that, there was a blinding flash, and when it faded, Jimmy was gasping and swaying dangerously.

“Hey, whoa,” Rufus said, hurrying to steady him. “You all right, boy?”

“Uh,” Jimmy replied, nodding. “F-feel like I been... chained to a comet.”

John felt somewhat the same way.

He was still trying to halfway process what had just happened when Ellen and the rest of the Mills family ran up. “Charlie,” Mrs. Mills barked, “I thought I told you to stay out of this!”

“This is one time I’m glad she didn’t,” John replied, amazed he was able to be coherent at all. Then he looked at Charlie, who was white as a sheet but had stood her ground the whole time. “Much obliged, Charlie.”

Charlie shrugged a little. “I owed you one.”

“Ma,” Mark choked out from the boardwalk.

Mrs. Mills drew a ragged breath and jogged over to pull him into a hug.

Ellen put a hand on John’s right arm, and he could feel it. “C’mon,” she said quietly. “It’s over.”

He pulled himself together enough to give the Colt back to Dean and pull his arm out of the sling he no longer needed, then let Ellen steer him back to the jail and just sit for a few minutes, long enough for the undertaker and his crew to come take care of the bodies. He didn’t know how long it was, just... a while. But then she rousted him out to walk with her, arm in arm, back to the Roadhouse, passing throngs of happy people as they went. A whole gaggle of ladies was standing around in the street in front of the Roadhouse, laughing and talking with Bess Mills and Jimmy’s wife, Amelia; Bobby and Jody Mills were sitting on one bench sharing a sarsaparilla, and Rufus and Dr. Visyak were sitting on another sharing a beer. And when John and Ellen walked inside, they spotted Mrs. Mills’ four kids all sitting around a table with Sam, Dean, and Ash, talking animatedly but quietly.

“C’mon,” Ellen said, tugging at John’s arm a little. “Let me fix you something to eat.”

So he followed her into the kitchen, though he kept his eye on the kids.

“Y’know,” she said as she got him a plate and started dishing food onto it, “there’s a big reward out for McLeod—$5,000, I think. Might be enough to buy the Roman place.”

He shook his head. “Let Dean have it. All he’s ever wanted is a home of his own. Sam could keep the books for him. Hell, Dean might even marry. Charlie, maybe?”

She snorted. “Not likely. Charlie’s one of the boys.” She paused. “Although....”

“What?”

“Found a telegram when I got back tonight. Jo’s comin’ home. Jim said she just couldn’t take polite society back East anymore.”

He smiled. “Can’t blame her. And wouldn’t object.”

She put the plate in front of him and looked him in the eye. “That takes care of the boys. What about you?”

“How do you mean?”

She hooked a finger behind the lapel of his vest, making the badge catch the light... and making his heart race a bit. “You swore an oath to protect this town.”

“Ellen, I don’t... owning a saloon... I don’t know.”

“My girls aren’t on the menu, and neither am I. I employ them to serve food and drinks—and nothing more.”

“And who makes sure of that?” he asked before he could stop himself. “Ash?”

Her eyebrows rose. “Why, John Winchester, whatever are you implying?”

He hesitated, but only for a second, and was surprised at how sure he was of his answer. “That maybe it’s time my gun wasn’t on the menu anymore, either.”

“Oh, I dunno, John,” she teased. “People might say we don’t need your kind around here.”

“Let ’em,” he rumbled and kissed her.


End file.
